Broken

Another story from my childhood, written around the same time as Lose 'Em. I don't think it's as good as the training wheels story, but it was definitely a more powerful moment in my life.

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There it was, underneath the park bench. It was already dead when I got to it. I’d killed bugs before, and seen rabbits slaughtered, but this was different. I had deliberately killed a bird, and for no reason whatsoever. I think it was a robin.

When I first got my BB gun 2 years earlier, Mom and Dad had both warned me repeatedly about shooting animals. Or anything else for that matter. Mom was not in favor of me having a BB gun at all, but it was my 8th birthday and we’d just moved from the suburbs to a house on 3 acres out in the country. We even had chickens. When I opened the present, she was pissed at my dad. I don’t think he told her before he bought it.

“Ed, I swear to God, if he shoots himself or a cat or a dog or another kid or a window or my goddamn car with that thing I’m gonna kill you, you son of a bitch! And I better not find any broken glass around here, either!” This was directed at me as she stormed out of the room.

“I need a cigarette” was the last thing I heard her mutter before the bedroom door slammed.

So, there were very specific rules about the BB gun. I was only allowed to remove my gun from the deck behind the house with parental permission, which Mom never gave. Otherwise, I could only shoot from the back deck towards the field. The list of specific items that were forbidden targets included: people, animals, buildings, cars, and anything made of glass. After I annihilated some of her flowerpots that had been just sitting around all year, this last item was later expanded to an entire category including plastic, ceramic, or anything that breaks apart.

In the field there was an enormous rotten tree stump. It must have been two hundred years old before the tree was cut down, which was obviously years ago. A new fir tree had sprouted from the top of it, and had grown to the size of a Christmas tree. I’d usually put beer cans or other targets on the stump or in the little fir tree. It was about 30 or 40 feet from the deck which was on the second story. Below the deck was where Dad kept a lot of junk, including snow tires, empty 50 gallon drum barrels, a Chevy engine block, and an old park bench.

Now that I was ten I was getting bored with my old target range. I wanted more of a challenge. Just as I finished reloading for the 3rd time and was thinking of doing something else, I saw the bird perched on a wire running from the deck to the side of the house near the window to my parents’ bathroom. Without thinking I took aim and pulled the trigger. Literally, no thoughts passed through me, I simply acted. There was no way to miss; it was only about 10 feet away. It dropped instantly. I dropped my BB gun and ran down to look.

There is no remorse like the realization that you’ve taken a life. Even now it’s difficult to recall the flood of emotion I felt as I picked it up in my hands and saw the head droop limply. I’d shot it in the neck and broken it. I was amazed at how soft the feathers were, and how light it was. I remembered that bird bones are hollow. Somehow I knew it was a female and wondered if it had any eggs in a nest somewhere. I stood there and cried for 10 minutes with this dead bird in my hands. Then, with tears on my cheeks and a runny nose, I went in to the house and showed my mom what I had done. She didn’t yell, although I could see she was angry. But she could also see my conscience was already dealing a worse punishment than she could. She got a Kenney shoe box from the closet, and after a solemn funeral ceremony, we buried it in front of the giant old tree stump.