Since I killed that hummingbird, I've been obsessed with death. I was very young when it happened, almost thirty years ago. I had received a compressed air rifle as a birthday gift. Hot summer, at my grandparents' estate. A compressed air rifle and three boxes of 9mm pellets. Three hundred shots, the whole afternoon ahead.
The place, a gigantic Eden with a pool and horses, full of fruit trees, was filled with overo lizards, which came out of the ditches to eat the fallen peaches and figs. I started with them. Thanks to "Operation Wolf", my aim was perfect. The lizards had no chance. The shots bounced off the reptiles' leathery skin, yes, but they hurt. Each impact made us jump. Them from the pain. Me from laughter.
Once the lizards were frightened away, thirsty for more blood, I climbed up the gigantic ombú tree that stood in the middle of the estate. The old shrub rose fat and grotesque from the ground, reaching an outrageous height. I loved that ombú, because despite its monstrosity (or perhaps thanks to it), it was very easy to climb. And I was climbing it, fantasizing about being a sniper, when I saw it. It was an impossible being. Small, shiny, agile and lively. With invisible wings, "floating" in place. Moving from flower to flower, in a straight line, not respecting the same physics as others of its species.
I remember the exact moment I had it in my sights. Something I didn't recognize sent me a warning I didn't hear. I pulled the trigger and, damn you "Operation Wolf", that was it. In an instant the hummingbird went from existing to being nothing, ever again. At first I was happy, glad to be such a good shot. A hummingbird is a tiny prey and a compressed air rifle is far from being precise.
My joy didn't last long. The hummingbird took a while to come back. It hadn't flown away, I myself had seen it fall! Could it have escaped another way? Fearful without knowing quite why, I climbed down from the ombú and searched where I had seen it fall. There it was, among some leaves, mortally still. Everything that had made it work so fantastically before my eyes had disappeared. My actions had stripped it of everything that made it beautiful. Now it lay flaccid, dirty, and in an absurd pose. But above all, it lay still. That stillness is something I can still connect to because of the impression it left on my mind. It is the perpetual and irrevocable stillness of what until then had done nothing but move to survive.
Picking it up with my hands was the worst thing I could have done. Still warm, the little bird weighed nothing between my chubby fingers. It felt limp and beyond any possible salvation. It was only at that moment, with the flaccid hummingbird in my hands, that I understood what was happening. I understood everything I needed to understand about death, as well as what it feels like to cause it. Too much for a 10-year-old. I threw the hummingbird and locked myself in my room to cry for the rest of the day. The rifle was left there, next to the ombú. When much later I remembered it, it had already rusted, fortunately.
I don't want to end this terrible anecdote without you knowing that I received a punishment befitting my actions. I, unlike most, don't enjoy when a hummingbird appears in my yard. I am deprived of marveling at its existence without feeling a sharp pain in my heart. Every hummingbird I come across is a tearing of guilt and remorse. Considering the colossal beauty of these delicate birds, I think it's a harsh but certainly just sentence.
PS: I was informed in Tiradero 10 that comments are closed for this dump. I hadn't even noticed. It must have been an error that slipped while I was uploading. There's nothing I can do without re-uploading everything. Please excuse me and thanks for reading!
