by Sarah Davy
The bird flapped wildly, its wings clipping the walls and sending echos around the house. I sat with my pillow over my head, willing it to die quickly so that the sound would stop. My father sat on the settee, his cup of tea almost empty as his hand quivered. The noise grew louder as the bird began to call for help. Peering through the crack in the door, I watched my father stand slowly and walk towards the fireplace. He lifted the axe, turning it in his hand before swinging it over his shoulder and sending it crashing towards the chimney breast.
Sarah Davy lives in the North East of England, and is currently studying for a degree in Literature and Creative Writing with the Open University.