With What Wings?

The waves in the water rippled as his fingers gently waded through the liquid. A hummingbird hummed softly by his ear, and he turned. His gray eyes stared at the winged creature. It landed on the log beside him. Its small head tilted. Its tiny, beady eyes stared at him. He grabbed it before it could fly away. His fingers enclosed around it tightly. Its small frame cracked, and its eyes bore into him, barren of any light. He watched as blood dripped from the bird's body, staining his skin in scarlet. He laid it down on the log again, and deftly began to pluck the small feathers from its body. He did not stop until all of the feathers were gone.

"Lazarus!" a voice called, from the other side of the trees. He looked towards the trees, noticing the faint white of his mother's dress through the various green hues. He looked back at the bird, and then his hands, which were sticky with blood and feathers. He dipped them into the water, meticulously picking the feathers from his hand.

His mother called out his name once more. He pulled his hands from the water, which was now decorated with a small circle of red. He stood up, using his pants to dry off his hands. He strode through the trees, humming softly to the tune of the leaves rustling in the breeze. He could hear the trees' voices, murmuring unhappily amongst themselves. Bearing witness to the murder of one of their residents did not please them.

"There you are. Your father needs help in the barn." His mother gently pushed him in the direction of the barn. He walked slowly, much to his mother's obvious irritation. She called out for him to hurry up, before the sun went to bed. His ears did not register her words, only the strengthening volume of the displeased trees.

His father was mucking out the horse's defecation. He perked up when he noticed Lazarus standing in the doorway, his face void of any emotion. This sight was not new to his father. He gestured for his son to take over, and grabbed the grooming brush. Lazarus took the pitchfork, and stabbed it into the horse's droppings. His father pretended not to notice the aggression poured into each movement.

It felt like hours before his mother finally called them in for dinner. In the center of the dining table was a large hunk of meat. In its place, Lazarus saw a weeping cow.

"You alright, Laz?" his father asked, chewing on a piece of the cow.

Lazarus shrugged, grabbing the hunk of meat with his hand. His parents stared at him in surprise. His eyes were level with the cow's in his hands. He smiled at it, and tore into it, ripping its head from the body. The tearful eyes he saw faded into lifeless ones. One last tear rolled down its white cheek. The severed head was sitting plaintively on his plate. It stared through him with blank eyes. He grabbed his fork, jamming it into the cow's left eye.

His parents watched him as he sliced into his steak. His eyes were bright as he dug into the meat, and his canines were like fangs as they sank into it.

Later that evening, his parents sat down and whispered amongst themselves.

"We should take him to see Dr. Sanda. There something wrong with him," his mother said. Her husband nodded in agreement.

"You're right. It was like he was seeing something else rather than a slice of meat," his father murmured, his chin resting thoughtfully on the palm of his hand. What was going on in his son's head? He glanced over at his wife, who was working on a scarf for their son.

"I'll go check on him and make sure he's ready for bed."

Lazarus was sitting on his bed, wearing his night clothes. He didn't even look up as his father entered his room. His father sat down beside him. He patted his knee. Lazarus's eyes dropped down to his hand, and moved his knee away. His dad frowned, retracting his hand.