The Pigeons Were Watching

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     We had a good system going, the pigeons and I.

     Every day at 9:12 am, we would get together at the abandoned park on Fifth Street and Hawthorne Avenue. Every day, I brought them real food: a variety of fresh seeds and grains instead of that poison called bread that toddlers loved to hurl at them. Every day, they’d sit around and listen to me talk in exchange. Our conversations were far from profound; most of the time, I rambled about the upcoming weather, my brother Dave’s ear-piercing heavy metal playlists, or the stares I received on my walk over. I didn’t mind that they couldn’t respond to me, nor did I mind that they had no clue what the hell heavy metal was. All that mattered was that they were always there. Always listening.

     Always watching.

     The one hundred and fifty-ninth day of our ritual started as usual. I awoke at 8 in the morning to the never-ending churning sounds of the laundromat below Dave's studio apartment. The space was cramped enough to be considered a room cleverly disguised as several. Dave, ever the nostalgic but not quite the forward thinker, bought the place on a whim since it was within walking distance from our childhood neighborhood. I didn’t understand the sentiment, but I couldn’t complain. He was my brother, my last living relative, and he was generous enough to let me sleep on his futon for free. But above all, Dave was the only non-feathered being I cared about in this cruel urban hellscape.

     “Morning!” Dave smiled and greeted me as he walked out of his bedroom, clad in his typical black branded polo shirt and brown cargo pants. “I’m heading off to work, we’re installing cameras at the new plaza downtown.” He grabbed his toolbox from underneath the coffee table before turning back to me. “It’s Thursday, right? So it’s… cracked corn today?”

     “Yeah, it is,” I responded, making my way to the kitchen and grabbing a large bag of gold and ivory kernels. The fragments of grain crunched softly against the thin layer of plastic as I lifted the bag into my backpack. “Have a good day at work.”

     “Thank you! Enjoy the park, it’s a beautiful day out.” I nodded as he left the apartment before returning to my daily tasks. I ate a breakfast of dry Frosted Flakes, brushed my teeth, and walked out the door at 9:00. As I walked into the hallway and down the stairs, I was met with the typical smell of detergent and wet cement. At 9:03, I passed by the laundromat and received an icy glare from its owner, Mrs. Lee. Ignoring whatever obscenity she chose to mumble in my direction for the day, I stepped outside into the blinding August daylight. It was indeed a nice day, with an endless azure sky free of clouds wrapping around the concrete jungle that surrounded me on all sides. The sun had already emerged from the peaks of skyscrapers, cooking the city between the asphalt roads below and the faint smog above like a microwave. There were more people walking along the sidewalks than yesterday, and each person pierced my soul with dagger-like glances and grumbles they knew I could hear. Thankfully, I reached the gate of the old park nine minutes and four blocks later.

     Though one would hardly believe it, the park was once a far more lush place. During my childhood, I would run around its springy green carpet of grass, climb through the canopies of full maple trees, and make believe that the shiny silver gazebo at the center of the field was a castle. Now, however, the place was hardly recognizable. The fields had largely died, leaving a tough layer of soil with a few brittle yellow patches like an old man clinging to his last strands of hair. Two narrow paths curved lazily through the edges of the park, leading to a single splintering wooden bench that I safely assumed was only ever occupied by myself. The once proud and vibrant maple trees still stood, but were largely bare despite the season. Beyond them stood the rusty skeletal husk of the gazebo, whose roof looked like it was one soft breeze away from caving in. It wasn’t much, far from the work of Olmsted, but it was mine, and it was perfect. We had a lot in common, the park and I; we were both small fragments of the natural order strangled by the cold, concrete grasp of society. In the few months that I’ve been coming here, I have not seen another soul enter the grounds. It was the ideal place to become invisible, and I found myself returning to this paradise time after time to hide from the outside world’s anger that seemed to follow me around.

     At 9:15, I sat down on my bench, disregarding the musty smell of the wood and suspicious white stain on the edge of the backrest. After shifting around to find the most comfortable position I could, I opened my backpack and pulled out the bag of cracked corn. When the sound of tearing plastic filled the park, the pigeons began to arrive. One by one, a cacophony of plump gray bodies clad in dense feathers swooped in from the surrounding trees, eyeing my bag and me with a familiar contentment. I listened to the quiet scratching of their scaly pink claws against the gravel path. I watched their heads bob like wind-up toys as they walked towards me. Before long, I was surrounded by my usual audience of silver, slate, and charcoal, their expectant eyes shining a fiery orange. Some puffed their necks in anticipation, the morning sun flashing them with smooth purples and greens like an oil spill. I greeted my feathered companions with a wave and received a melody of coos and croons in response before reaching into my bag and tossing a handful of the fragmented kernels onto the ground.

     Soon, I had forgotten all about Mrs. Lee’s insults and the angry looks from the morning. I focused only on the gentle creatures surrounding my feet. Periwinkle pecked rapidly at the corn,

her aptly colored cere flopping as she stuffed her face in a way unbecoming of a lady. Salami took a seat beside me, his speckled feet tapping against the bench’s edge. Towards the edge of the path, Crook slowly savored her meal, her disfigured beak maneuvering carefully around the golden treat. Sadness tugged at my heart as I watched her, and I wondered if she was born with a mouth that curved to the right, or if she had been injured. Perhaps she was one of the last former carrier pigeons still around today, a veteran that once could fly hundreds of miles at a time to deliver messages. Or narcotics. It didn’t really matter to me.

     Despite the impossibility of communication, there was an understanding between the pigeons and me. They were the only beings in this world I could call friends, and I was the only person who showed up at the old park to feed them. I enjoyed my daily ritual with them, and I liked to believe they appreciated me as much as I appreciated them. Sometimes they would peek their curious heads into my backpack. On rare occasions, they would even sit in my lap without defecating on me. But above all, they were the most just creatures I ever encountered.

     The pigeons didn’t wildly accuse me of murdering the governor at a rally six years ago, even though I couldn’t have told you the man’s name at the time. The pigeons didn’t call me a depraved monster in court, refuse to listen to my story, or label my actions as politically-driven terrorism, even though I didn’t give enough of a shit about politics to vote. The pigeons didn’t lock me away in a cell for more than half a decade, even though they couldn’t find the pistol that I allegedly used to do it. The pigeons didn’t take half a decade to exonerate me, even though the gun was still never found. The pigeons didn’t continue to glare at me like I was guilty even after I was released, as if clearing my name meant nothing. That was all people. That was all the government. And pigeons are not people or the government.

     As I pondered that thought, I realized that one of my friends was missing. Cornelius. He was a male with dark gray feathers and white spots near his neck that reminded me of a fat man in a suit. His dapper appearance earned him his name, which I proudly gave him five months ago. Cornelius was one of the first pigeons I fed regularly. None of the pigeons were ever late to our greetings, as they can accurately tell the time, a skill that I, too, had acutely developed over six long years of imprisonment. Cornelius had never failed to join the others, especially on cracked corn day, which was his personal favorite. I craned my head around the bench to look for him, and to my relief, I found him sitting in a nearby tree. The relief, however, slowly eroded as I began to inspect my friend from afar.

     His coat was the same dark hue it had always been, but the white feathers near his neck were gone. Perhaps he had molted since I saw him the day prior. I read somewhere online that pigeons can grow feathers of different colors during the molting process. Just as I was about to turn back to the other birds rapidly pecking at the corn around me, I noticed another anomaly. Cornelius’ eyes, typically a bright orange, flashed a shade of crimson. It was nearly imperceptible, like the first step of a lightning bolt towards the ground before returning to the sky. I thought the light had hit my eyes wrong. After blinking, I found his eyes were orange once again, fixed directly on me. Not at the bag of cracked corn. Not at the bench. Not at the general outline of my body. Me.

     Just me.

     It was very rare for me to make direct eye contact with any of the pigeons. Their focus was always on the food I tossed to them or an unfamiliar pattern on my clothing. Yet I stared into Cornelius’ eyes, and he stared right back into mine, frozen in place. We became two statues locked in space and time. It felt as though my face was being ripped open and examined by the

bird, and any wrong move would cause him to tear me apart. I was being judged by a winged god with blood orange eyes. A minute passed, then five, then ten. My eyes watered and blinked, my breathing grew heavy, yet Cornelius stayed deathly still upon his throne of maplewood. He watched me for what felt like an hour, but time had become a lost concept to me as I remained in the pigeon’s bizarre trance. What was he looking for? Why had he chosen to spy on me from afar instead of eating with the rest of his cooing brethren on the ground? After I had finished feeding the others, I stood from the bench and began to make my way across the field to the tree. I tried to focus on the crunchy feeling of the parched grass beneath my feet to distract myself from the uncertainty that plagued my mind. But as I reached the gnarled foot of the tree, Cornelius began to fly off towards the city. He flew smoother than I had ever seen, his wings beating in rhythmic movements that contrasted the rapid, awkward fluttering I had witnessed countless times before. Looking back towards me, I heard a sound, barely audible, come from his direction.

     click

     Before I knew it, he had disappeared, blurring together with the charcoal skyscrapers and smog that surrounded the park.

     By 3 pm, I had stood up from my bench and bid my friends farewell. Our feeding and chatting ritual had ended on schedule, and I had grown hungry. I walked away from the rest of the flock of pudgy birds, giving them a wave goodbye. Although the day had concluded in a mostly normal fashion, I was worried about how Cornelius acted that morning. My friend was behaving very strangely, and I still couldn’t comprehend the sight of his eyes or the faint sound that resonated from him as he flew away. I wasn’t concerned he’d get lost in the city; pigeons are incredible navigators that can find their way home from miles away by sensing Earth’s magnetic field. I was, however, frightened that something was wrong with him.

     Back in the apartment, I spent the next two and a half hours on my laptop, desperately searching for a cause. Thankfully, his behavior ruled out most avian diseases, leaving mating displeasure and a change in diet preferences as the only options. I couldn’t help but grin as I thought about my ruffled companion having lady problems. Pigeons mate for life, and if he had a partner of his own, maybe she wasn’t feeling the happiest. To cover both cases, I DoorDash'd a mix of seeds and grains, along with a few small roses, from the local supermarket to give to him. They arrived by 6:07 pm, and I thoroughly checked the peephole before taking the goods to avoid unwanted detection and ridicule.

     Right as the clock hit 6:45, Dave walked through the door, cracking his back and letting out a sigh of relaxation. “Today was a doozy, bro. You should’ve seen how many cameras we had to install in this place, and they were all watching the same dumb fountain!” Dave’s rambling was halted, however, when his eyes grazed the roses that sat on the kitchen counter. “OH MY GOD, TOM! DID YOU MEET A GIRL!? Wait… DID YOU TALK TO A GIRL!?” he squawked, an impossibly large grin plastering his face. I scoffed at the sight.

     “No, Dave. They’re for one of my birds.” I replied flatly, watching my brother’s face sink.

     “Oh, come on, dude. Here I was thinking you finally started talking to a human that isn’t me,” he sighed, trying his best not to look too disappointed. “You know, I’m going out for drinks tonight with some of my coworkers. I’m sure they’d be happy to meet you, Thomas.”

     “I’m good, Dave. I hate people, and if you haven’t noticed, people hate me.” I said, my voice low.

     “You don’t know who hates you and who doesn’t, because you never give anybody a chance. There are a lot of people out there who aren’t named Mrs. Lee,” he droned sarcastically.

     “It’s not just Mrs. Lee, Dave. It’s the people who see me and cross the street when I walk in their direction. It’s the people who still look at me like a monster and call me one under their breath. Anybody who’s lived here for more than six years probably knows my face, and I’d bet you all the money in the world they don’t like it.” My tone came off sharper than I had intended, and I saw the guilt melt Dave’s usually chipper face. “I’m sorry, today’s just been weird, and I don’t wanna make it worse by going out.” I sighed.

     Dave looked at me with concern before sitting down on the futon next to me and patting my back. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

     “Mostly,” I replied. “When I was in the park today, one of the pigeons was just… staring at me. I could've sworn I saw its eyes flash for a second, and it was flying weird and making these odd noises…” I paused from my mini rant to avoid sounding insane.

     “Maybe it just recognized you. You told me they have photographic memory, right?”

     “Self-recognition.” I cut him off. “It lets them recognize their own face in the mirror, not somebody else’s.”

     “Damn, they can do that? That’s really cool! You’ll have to introduce me to these birds sometime, Tom.” Even in my most sour mood, Dave knew how to make me feel better. Despite my best efforts, a smile crept onto my face, infecting it with relief that I had rarely experienced over the past half-decade.

     “Thanks, Dave.”

     “No problem. I’ll be back late tonight, so have a good one. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he flashed his signature warm smile before setting his toolbox down and heading back out the door. I sat for a minute, thinking about Dave and the incredible, normal life that he had. In many ways, he was my opposite. He was kind to everyone, even those he had never met. He loved people,

and people loved him. Although he’d never admit it to me, I wondered if a small part of him was happy I didn’t join his friends. I was sure people would be far less inclined to spend time with him if they knew his brother, the alleged “Governor Killer,” who got released. At 8:23, I opened my laptop once again and searched for a video I had not watched in several months. It was a video of the late governor smiling at a luncheon event with his family. The man looked undoubtedly put-together with his dark gray suit and bow tie. He had a face that oozed charisma and friendliness, likely due to his grandfather-esque features. His large, ever-so-slightly crooked nose showed his age, complementing his wrinkles and graying hair. Cheers erupted from the crowd as he walked onto a nearby stage and announced his intention to run for office again. He likely would’ve won, too, had he not been murdered.

     The video left me with a tempest of emotions that whirled beneath my skin. On the one hand, he appeared to me to be every bit the kindhearted and well-meaning man people thought he was. He beamed as he politely shook hands with citizens, eagerly kissed babies heaved towards him, and tenderly wrapped his arm around his wife. And yet this same man was the reason I was declared a public abomination and arguably the most hated person in the city. I thought back to my trial, to the boos that erupted from the jury as I took the stand, to the judge’s scowl of bitter malice that pinned me to my seat, to the public defender who “accidentally” kept forgetting details and refused to call Dave as a witness. I tried my hardest to get through to people. I told them that I was just walking by the rally when the gunshots rang through the night air. That I wasn’t even supposed to be there. That I had never touched a Sig Sauer P365 pistol in my life. I ran from the scene because I was terrified, just as any other rational person would be during a shooting. I told them I had no hatred for the man or what he stood for, that I had no reason to kill him. I asked the prosecutors and detectives where the weapon was, and I was ignored. It felt like the entire city wanted me locked up, like it was rigged from the beginning. I told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and I was still wrongfully convicted. What were supposed to be the best years of my life were spent rotting in a cell, counting every minute that I spent locked away.

     My life was ruined by the dead man smiling so brightly in that video, and part of me loathed him for it. Even after my name was cleared and the Sig Sauer P365 remained missing, I had not been pardoned by the court of public opinion. To this day, I couldn’t land a job, couldn’t make friends, and couldn't even walk down the street without feeling countless eyes stabbing into me. As the recording ended and the screen cut to black, I closed the laptop and went to bed.

     The next day at 9:15 am, I found myself sitting on that decaying bench once again, my hands full of mixed seeds and vibrant pink roses. It was another sunny day, and the distant sound of cars and chatter echoed through the park. However, fewer of my friends had come to visit. To my disappointment, Cornelius had not yet shown up, and Crook was nowhere to be found either. I still diligently fed the other pigeons, who thankfully were behaving normally. I took solace in the fact that Periwinkle still ate with the pace of Joey Chestnut, and that Salami had taken up his usual spot near my shoulder, peeking at my phone like a toddler. For the first few hours, all seemed well, and my body began to relax in the cool summer breeze. Just as I was about to close my eyes, my tranquility was interrupted by a sound from above. It was a faint buzzing, like the sound of Mrs. Lee’s dryers when their loads are too big. It sounded sharp in a way that could only be mechanical. As I turned towards the sound, it stopped abruptly. The only thing in that direction was the rusty gazebo, but squinting my eyes, I was shocked to see Crook suddenly perched atop the ancient structure. Much like Cornelius, Crook held a special place in my heart. It took almost four months to gain her trust, but after I did, she would always follow me to the edge of the park to say goodbye. The bird was almost like a daughter to me, and I did all that I could to ensure she was able to eat whatever meal I brought for my winged compatriots. Her feathers were a radiant silver that sparkled in the sun’s warm rays, and even with her deformed beak, which jagged outwards on the right side of her face, she was a beautiful creature. I couldn’t help but stand up and slowly trudge towards my companion, but each step I took allowed my eyes to adjust to the bird perched upon her fortress of steel and rust. When I got a better view of her face, I knew what was wrong immediately.

     Today, her beak curved to the left.

     Staring at the blatantly incorrect pigeon, I felt my legs buckle beneath me. Once again, I was met with the cold, unforgiving glare of an avian I thought I knew. Just yesterday, Crook had been cooing with satisfaction as she pecked at the seeds I scattered for her and the others. That look of joy that melted my heart was gone, replaced by a look of unblinking judgment, like an angel condemning me to Hell. It was the same look Cornelius gave me at the tree; the same look that the judge gave me when he sentenced me; the same look I received from people unfortunate enough to spot me in public. The look that labeled me a ruthless murderer of a beloved government official, whose life was somehow more valuable than my own. It was a stare of penance for a sin I did not commit but was forced to repent for. It was a stare that stripped me of my freedom again and again.

     I had to resist the urge to scream. Once again, one of my friends had seemingly turned on me, gazing upon me with unwavering crimson eyes that were more still than death itself. I felt the urge to run, but as I turned my back and headed towards the bench…

     CLICK

     The same sound that emitted so faintly from Cornelius resonated and rang from the pigeon, tearing through my brain like an earthquake. It was sharp, quick, and precise, like the shutter of a camera. I spun around, my body acting on pure instinct, yet Crook was no longer sitting on the gazebo. I thought she may have vanished into thin air, if not for the sudden choir of high-pitched coos that erupted from the bench. My eyes snapped back once again. Crook was now standing directly in front of Salami and Periwinkle, who recoiled violently as if they were standing on hot coals. Their frightened orange eyes became wide, trembling saucers, like they did not recognize the figure in front of them whatsoever, while the silver creature’s own red pupils remained completely still. The two horrified birds fled, flapping their wings so chaotically that one might have assumed they were learning how to fly for the first time. Meanwhile, Crook slowly rotated her head towards me.

     Vrrrr…

     Click

     Click

     Click

     I did not stay to examine Crook any further. I did not want to know what could have possibly possessed one of my closest friends. Without another word, I turned and started sprinting towards the gate, expecting the winged figure to follow me. But she didn’t. I huffed and wheezed as my body jolted back towards the apartment, until I collapsed inside at 12:02 pm. By some miracle, Mrs. Lee was not at her desk, saving me from a tsunami of profanities and socks hurled at my face. When I stepped back into Dave’s studio, my legs felt like gelatin, barely able to keep me standing. My heart was throbbing harder than it had in six years, and my feet pulsed with an aching throb.

     I locked the door behind me and collapsed onto the futon. I replayed the scene over and over again in my mind, trying in vain to make sense of what I had witnessed. First Cornelius, then Crook. They both began acting strangely out of nowhere. Their eyes turned red, their chirps became buzzing, and their features were off in ways that should be impossible. A few discolored feathers are one thing, but Crook’s beak changing its structure was another. Flinging open my laptop, I began scouring for answers yet again. I searched for illnesses, injuries, seasonal behaviors, anything that could explain what was going on. For hours, I got nowhere, until, out of rage and desperation, I searched “Birds making camera noises.”

     My screen was flooded with articles with absurd titles.

     “Is Your Parakeet Secretly a Russian Spy?”

     “Ducks Are Extinct: Five Coverups the Government DOES NOT WANT You to Know”

     “I Didn’t Know My House Was On Google Until I Learned This Alarming Fact About Blue Jays”

     Every title read like a conspiracy theorist’s fever dream. They made ridiculous claims that birds had been replaced by computers, AI, or their neighbor’s drone. Exasperated, I shut the laptop and tossed it aside. There was no way two pigeons had been replaced by machines. It didn’t matter that they made camera sounds, or flew a little weird, or… made camera sounds…

     No.

     I closed my eyes and tried to remember the exact sound I heard the pigeons make.

     Vrrr…

     Click

     Vrrr…

     Click

     Vrrr…

     Click

     Then, I remembered.

     I remembered the faint buzzing of security cameras as I ran through an alleyway, my mind and body pushing themselves to the limit, fleeing from a rally. I remembered the sharp, quick, precise shutter of the courtroom’s cameras as they captured my every angle on the stand. I remembered the mechanical droning of the footage that prosecutors forced me to watch three times over. But that was impossible. Those cameras were government property. How could their sounds be coming from a couple of pigeons? It made no sense. I wanted to end this train of thought before I drove myself mad. Before I snapped like the animal this city labeled me as. Before Dave got home from work.

     That’s when an idea struck me. I pulled out my phone and began writing my brother a text.

​

     Are you still at work?

​

     Hey Tom! Yeah, the guys and I are finishing up inventory. That plaza might be the safest place in town.

​​

     Has your company ever installed cameras at the city courthouse?

​​

     What?

​​

     I’m serious. Answer the question.​

 

     I can ask. Gimme a sec…

     Yeah, apparently, we put cameras in there 10 years ago.​

 

     Do you have any?​

 

     Any what?​

 

     CAMERAS! KEEP UP!!!​

 

     Tom, what’s going on?​

 

     I’ll explain at home. If you can, I need you to bring one of those cameras home, just for tonight.

     I need to see what it sounds like.

 

     I could get written up for something stupid like that.

 

     If you do, I’ll go out drinking with your friends for the next 3 weeks.

 

     …

     Done.

​

     With a sigh of relief, I set the phone down. If I were going to buy into the theory that the pigeons I encountered were cameras, or even drones, I wanted absolute proof. I waited for Dave to come home, losing track of time. Eventually, he came creeping through the doorway with a brown paper bag.

     “I got one. It has enough charge to take a few photos and a short video. Now will you PLEASE explain what is going on?” He shouted, clearly stressed from stealing an expensive piece of equipment from his job.

     “I’ll tell you as soon as we hear what it sounds like. I have to be one hundred percent sure.” I responded, my voice oozing with anticipation. For the next few hours, the two of us struggled to work with the unfamiliar technology. Dave had installed plenty of cameras in his time as a technician, but using them was a different story. It was almost 11:36 when we finally got it to film.

     “Okay,” I said. “Be quiet.”

     Dave shut his mouth as the camera turned on, shining a bright crimson light.

     Vrrr…

     CLICK

     My jaw went slack. The sound that rang out through the apartment was identical to the sounds Cornelius and Crook, or whatever they were now, had been emitting over the past two days. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. But the truth was right in front of me.

     “Holy shit…” I whispered.

     “What?” Dave responded, his voice gravelly from exhaustion.

     “Dave, I am going to tell you something, and I promise you that it is the absolute truth. On Mom’s and Dad’s grave.” I watched his face darken at the mention of our late parents.

     “This better have been worth it,” he sighed.

     “The pigeon that I was telling you about, the one that was making weird noises. Today, there was another one making the exact same sound. Both of them made the same clicking noise that just came from that camera.” I paused, ready for Dave to laugh or ask me if I was drunk. But he said nothing, and I continued. “It’s not just that. Both of the birds looked different… like in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Their eyes were glowing red, just like this camera and-”

     “Stop it,” David growled, his voice deeper than I had ever heard before.

     “What?” I asked.

     “Just stop it. I have been so patient with you. I let you stay here for free, I don’t force you to go out, and I buy all of the food that you eat. I have done nothing but help you get back on your feet since you got out of prison. Because you’re my family, and I know you didn’t kill that guy. I’m risking my job right now, and you’re telling me it’s because of those stupid fucking pigeons!?” he screeched, his face seething, turning more red than the sputtering camera that sat between us.

     “Dave, this is serious. I could be getting spied on! Those government freaks might be making drones to watch me! What if they hurt Cor-”

     “I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT, THOMAS!” Dave shouted. “Do you realize how insane you sound!? You think everyone is against you, but guess what, you’re free now! I know what happened to you is terrible, and I know it still hurts, but you can’t stay in that damn park watching birds forever and hiding! You need to move on as other people have. You need to get a job, or we’re both gonna end up on the street. And if that doesn’t work for you, then I don’t think I can help you anymore.” Dave’s voice broke as he finished his tirade. I watched tears well up in his eyes as he took the camera back and marched to his room.

     I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to think. Had I lost my grip on reality? The idea that the government was spying on me even after my release was asinine, yet I had seen and heard the proof with my own eyes. Cornelius and Crook were no longer the birds that I had befriended over the past several months. Every fiber of my being screamed that. How could I trust a system that locked me away for six years based on nothing more than ballistics and a gun that was never found? How could I trust a system that rigged my fate from the start? How could I trust a system that took more than half a decade to correct its mistakes, except for its lack of evidence? How could I trust a system?

     Pigeons don’t buzz and hover in the air. Pigeons don’t rearrange the features of their face or the color of their feathers. Pigeons don’t stalk their prey with glowing red eyes and mechanical clicks. Pigeons don’t glare at you with the bone-chilling intensity of a guilty verdict. Pigeons don't drive you crazy and rip your family apart. That was people. That was the government. These things were not pigeons. They were drones. They just had to be.

     All I had to do was prove it.

     I began brainstorming ideas to prove my claims at 12:05 am. If I could somehow take Dave to see the drones, he would have to believe me and help me get rid of them. But Dave wouldn’t follow me to the park after that fight we just had, and I doubted I could take him there against his will. What I could do, however, is take the drones to Dave. It had just struck midnight on Saturday morning, meaning Dave would not be going to work. If I could capture the drones at the park and take them back to the apartment, I would have all the proof I need. But what if they were dangerous, and I tracked the government back home? I decided I could not risk that. I would have to destroy the drones before returning home and show Dave the broken mechanical pieces and camera lenses. Yes. That was perfect. I felt like Alexander the Great or Sun Tzu,

planning a masterful strategy against the avian impostors that replaced my dear friends. I would avenge the real Cornelius and Crook, no matter the cost.

     At 5 am, I loaded up my backpack with sunflower seeds, cracked corn, and the largest knife I could find in Dave’s kitchen. Before the sun rose, I had set off on my mission, strutting through the sidewalk with newfound confidence. I reached the gate at 5:11, scanning the area for any sign of the mechanical beasts, but I found no sign of them. Both times I encountered the machines, they fled when I approached. So, I would have to lure them to me. I left my backpack on the bench, then drew my knife and stuffed it into my pocket before retrieving the bags of seed. I listened to the familiar rustles as I poured a trail of black and yellow towards the gazebo, before crouching inside its orange and gray frame. This structure was once my castle; now, it would be my stronghold. The metal walls that surrounded me created a blind spot, forcing the drones to land on or in the structure to continue spying on me. At 5:42, I began to wait. I sat inside the dead heart of the park, not caring about how long I had to stay put. I could do it. I had to do it. I remained unmoving, barely breathing, and ignored the burning and screaming of my stiff muscles. At last, when the sun reached its apex at 1 pm, my moment arrived.

     Vrrr…

     I heard the sound I had become all-too-acquainted with, buzzing lower and lower, until…

     Tap

     They landed.

     I sprang into action, grabbing the machines by their necks before they could fly away. They let out a thin, cooing shriek, a sound that was almost too natural, but I shoved the thought from my mind and focused on the mission. With all of my strength, I slammed the small bodies of the robotic imitators into the steel ribs of the gazebo. Each impact rattled the structure, ringing

a crescendo of metallic retribution through the empty park. But the birds… no. The drones did not break the way I expected. There was no snap of plastic, no clang of metal, and no sizzle of electricity. The only sound that escaped from them was a hollow, sickening thud.

     The government was more careful than I thought. They must have stored the mechanical bits inside these soft exteriors. Once more, I swung with everything I had. Again. And again. And again. After six hard blasts against the wall, the inorganic impostors that replaced my friends no longer moved. My arms burned, my breath grew ragged, but I continued my frenzy. I was so close to uncovering the truth: the cameras and wires and blinking red lights hidden beneath feathers and skin. Without hesitation, I withdrew my knife and prepared to carve into the limp figures below. I started with “Cornelius”, stabbing the blade into its metallic chest.

     Only it was not metallic.

     It was soft all the way through.

     That can’t be right.

     I continued sawing into the thing that copied my friend, desperate for the resistance of something artificial, but the knife sank all too easily. Warmth spilled onto my hands as a thick fluid began to gush from the limp drone. It wasn’t oil or coolant; it was blood. The innards beneath layers of dark red feathers that were not metal in the slightest.

     I carved through skin. Skin and muscle. Skin, muscle, and bone that tore, and my knife slowed. Lying in front of me was a pile of wet, fibrous material of something that had once been alive, now drowned in a sea of crimson. The material that made up Cornelius’ corpse.

     My knife slipped from my hand and struck the ground with a clatter as I turned to the other unmoving body. It was Crook, with her silver wings, orange eyes, and beak that curved on the right side of her face as it always had. It was the same Crook I knew, lying still in her own growing pool next to Cornelius.

     What have I done?

     I was wrong.

     Completely and horribly wrong.

     The world caved in upon me. It felt like I was suffocating. Every thought that attempted to form in my shattering mind was crushed underneath the weight of my crime. The air grew hotter than the August sun as I lurched to my feet, scrambling to figure out my next move.

     I had to hide the evidence.

     My body moved before my mind as I grabbed the bloody and broken bodies of my companions and frantically looked for a place to hide them. With trembling legs, I stepped out of the gazebo, my eyes darting on their own to a hole in the bottom of the gazebo. It was out of view and small enough that no more than an arm could fit inside. I placed the knife and corpses into the pit, pushing them until they were swallowed by the darkness. But as I retracted my hand, I felt something hard, followed by the sound of a dry, brittle crinkling. Reaching as deep as I could, I began to pull until I could see both objects in my hands.

     The first was a newspaper, dated six years back. Most of the ink on its front page had bled from time, becoming unreadable. The headline, however, was still clear.

     “Governor Cornelius C. Rook Set To Appear At Rally This Weekend.”

     My hands shook as I read what I could of the page. It was wrapped around something heavy. As I unfolded the newspaper, the shine of black metal and cold grasp of a handle made me want to vomit. In my hands was the missing link: the object of guilt that I had hid in this empty graveyard of a park six years ago.

     And then it all came back to me. I threw it back into the pit, praying that nobody had seen me. But turning around, I was met with a dozen piercing eyes that all now knew the terrible secret I was forced to remember.

     The pigeons were watching.