Four calling birds

http://dustyburrito.blogspot.com/2011/06/alice-tait-illustration.html

The night was silent. The room felt bleak and smelt like mould. It was Christmas Eve, and Luca lay awake, the side of his stomach aching. This was it, he thought. This was finally the end.

Each time his eyes closed, he could see his mother, her eyes flaming and bloodshot, her cheeks red, and body bloated as she came towards him with plates, knives and a wooden spoon. Beneath closed eyelids, the image was so much worse than it could have possibly been in real life. But still, she was there, haunting him and keeping him awake.

Why was she like this? Why did she have to be his mother? It felt so unfair.

He moved again in his bed, willing the pain in his ribs to move, but every time he thought about it, the stabbing jolts became worse. Heat ran up and down his side, until it wasn't just his ribs that ached, it was his whole torso, and then his legs, his neck, his arms and his skull. He tried to remember what it was that had hit him to cause this much pain, but in the fog of the fight, he couldn't identify the single, fatal blow.

And then he heard it, the calling birds. The ridiculous chortles mocked the stillness of the night, and all who lay awake dreading the approaching morning. Die now, he whispered, to the night, to the birds and to himself.