Spaghetti Guts

I couldn't help staring at the bird that was laying on the tarmac. It's head was still perfect. It's body was squished, organs spilling onto the road like spaghetti. This was not tomato sauce on my fingers. There were tears on my cheeks. The little birdie, it hadn't deserved this.

"Look at what Stella found!" The boys were screaming from across the road. They looked both ways before running over. My knees throbbed from squatting down for so long, but I didn't want to leave the poor bird. I wanted to bury him in my backyard. I wanted to make a little gravestone and say a little prayer. I didn't know how to pray, but I had seen it on television. I wanted to say goodbye to the bird. I wanted to make him better.

"Is it dead?" One of the boys kicked at it.

"Don't!" I shouted. Another boy kicked at it. The spaghetti guts landed on my shoe. I screamed.

"Let's go hang it from the tree!" One of the older boys decided. I tried to push them away, putting tomato sauce on another boy's t-shirt. They looked at the blood and laughed. This was nothing compare to how they were going to look when they're finish the torture of the dead birdie. The birdie I found. I had to protect him. No one else would.

"It's ours, Stella!" The older boy yell at me. They grabbed the bird by it's sad little head; it's body dangling, dripping as they ran toward the backyard. I wasn't allowed to cross the street. I stood there, hunkered down in front of the curb.

"Get the fire crackers!" One of them shouted. I heard the screen door slam. I heard the fire crackers. I heard them laughing. All day shouts and laughter rang out from the backyard while I sat on the curb and cried.

Finally, at dinner, I told my mom what happened. She was disgusted and couldn't finish slurping up the noodles on her plate. My father dug in with his fork, getting sauce on his face and said, "Oh, boys will be boys." I cried a little more.