Tilly sat motionless, staring at the scratches on the dirty window. She was lost, a slave to the depths of her psyche, buried deep in her sinister machinations.
The owl’s carcass smashed against the glass window. She watched as small streams of blood dripped from his swollen and contorted neck, his eyes wide with fear. He stared at her. She stared back, driven to fascination by the set of soft feathers floating to the ground; the only moving piece of the creature’s dead body. She imagined the body hardening, growing cold, the maggots moving in to feast….