Page 6 of Psychotic Faith
She hesitates, then heads inside. The moment the door closes, I position my fingers around the sparrow's neck. One quick motion—precise, efficient. The bird goes still.
The back door opens again. Emma stands there, having clearly watched through the window. Her face is pale but curious, not horrified.
"Miss Faith, why didn't you try to save it?"
I wrap the small body in a tissue from my pocket, my movements calm and unhurried. "Sometimes mercy looks different than we expect, sweetheart." I smooth her hair with my clean hand. "The bird was suffering. Now it's not. That's a kind of saving too."
She processes this, then asks, "Did it hurt?"
"No.It was very quick."
"Oh." She considers. "My grandma says everything dies eventually."
"Your grandma's right." I stand, the wrapped bird light as air in my palm. "Death isn't always the enemy we think it is."
Emma nods solemnly and heads back inside. I dispose of the sparrow in the dumpster, wash my hands in the utility sink, and return to my desk. My pulse never elevated. My hands never shook.
Ending suffering has never bothered me the way it should.
After the children disperse, their parents collecting them with tired smiles and promises of lunch, Sarah corners me during our break. "Okay, what's going on? You've been weird all morning."
"I'm fine." I focus on my salad, avoiding her concerned gaze. "Just tired."
"Bullshit. You've checked your phone twelve times in the last hour. You never check your phone during work. New boyfriend?"
"No, nothing like that." The Polaroid sits in my cardigan pocket, edges pressing against my ribs. I've been touching it unconsciously all morning, making sure it's still there. Proof I didn't imagine it.
"Speaking of boyfriends," Sarah continues, "have you seen Mr.Patterson today? He usually haunts the biography section on Tuesdays, pretending to read while staring at you."
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. "No, I haven't seen him."
"Good. That guy gives me the creeps. Remember last week when he cornered you by the Civil War section?"
I remember. He'd grabbed my wrist when I tried to leave, insisted I get dinner with him, left bruises that have only just faded. "Yeah."
"If he bothers you again, tell Roger. He'll ban him from the library."
"I will." But something tells me Mr.Patterson won't be bothering anyone anymore. The thought should terrify me. Instead, I feel my shoulders relax for the first time all day.
The rest of my shift passes in a blur of returns and recommendations, and before I know it, I'm walking the familiar five blocks to my father's townhouse for our standing Tuesday dinner.
"You look tired." Dad's first words when I arrive for our weekly dinner. He's already seated at the dining table, wine glass half empty.
"Long day at the library. Someone donated three hundred books that all need processing."
He pours me a glass without asking. We have our routines, rhythms established over years of these dinners. "The city's getting worse, Faith. There was another body found this morning."
My hand stills on my wine glass. "Another?"
"Third one this week. All with histories of violence—domestic abuse, assault charges, restraining orders. Someone's targeting these men specifically."
"That's…" I search for the right word. Horrible? Concerning? "Strange."
"It's escalating. Whoever's doing this has resources, training. This isn't random street violence." He rubs his temples, looking older than his fifty-eight years. "I want you to be careful. Start taking Ubers instead of walking."
"Dad, I live twelve blocks from the library."
"Humor me. With this vigilante out there and the general crime rate—"
