Owls,

or,

The Birds and the Moment.

‘A parliament! Look Jack, a parliament!’

‘Max?’

‘Look, over on those oak trees!’ (Didn’t he know? Didn’t he know how much this meant?)

‘A parliament?’

‘There’s a group! Five of them!’

‘We’re late Max; she needs to talk to you.’

My excitement deflated, we walked on as the great birds eyes turned to follow. Those great impassive eyes watched us, slow and solitary blinks regarding us impassively. What was it Jack had said? What was it..?

Her?

Who? Her? My breath was catching in my throat, who was her? Why were we here? The park seemed full of overly bright light and the sharpness of sound was pain on the ears. Shapes blurred past and against me. There were no shadows here, I spun, where was the safety? My vision was swimming in liquid panic and my throat tightened as my legs turned to weak metals.

‘Jack! Jack, help me!’

In a heartbeat he was by my side, strong hands holding my weight and that care worn face regarding mine with deep concern.

‘Max, relax, we’re going to see someone who can help you; can help you with dealing with the accident.’

The mounting bewilderment spilt onto my face and his eyes became burningly intense.

‘What do you remember Max? What do you remember?’

My head was starting to spin and I lurched like a drunkard, I murmured one final refrain,

‘Remember? I remember them, I remember the owls.’

Blackness claimed me and for a moment I dreamt. I dreamt of a time when memories stayed inside my skull, didn’t recede, weren’t washed away like sandcastles on the beach. I remembered once, now all there was, were the calls of the owls from that night. It was a cold night and the winter was even colder. I had left the house and heard the owls’ shrieks as they hunted on the moors in that inky black. No light reached me and the only thing I remembered, the only thing that was were those echoes in my ears, the screams of the hunter and the death squeaks of the prey. That was all there was, all that remained. I awoke from that night…