He watched the birds, and the birds watched him.

His eyes were magnified in the lenses of his binoculars as he looked through the small window in the hut across a large, shimmering lake. It was there, on an embankment, that he saw a bird standing by the edge of the water, staring deep into its icy depths.
    Feverishly, Frank Loman peeled the binoculars from his face, spun around and quickly flipped through the various pages of a book that lay on the table. Inside were hundreds of pictures of birds, each varying in size, colour and shape.
    He loved this, the excitement he found whenever he spotted another bird was electrifying. He had been doing it for thirteen years now and it seemed more interesting than anything he had at home nowadays. He turned another page, and felt the sharp pain of a paper cut. He winced with pain and furrowed his brow.
    "Damn paper cuts," he said to the empty hut. He squeezed the cut and watched the red blood appear, slowly at first, then it bubbled out of the sliced skin.
    He fumbled with his breast pocket before pulling out a dirty handkerchief and wrapping it around his finger. He watched as the blood soaked in, oozing through the material and staining it a dark shade of red. He turned back to the window and picked up the binoculars, pressing them to his eyes he looked back at the embankment. The bird had disappeared from its spot.
    "****!" he said, he scanned the trees above and the rest of the embankment but the bird had disappeared.
    Disappointment filled his heart, it flooded into his veins and pulsed in his mind. He flung the binoculars onto the ground where the lenses smashed, sending glittering shards of glass spraying across the wooden floor. He sat down for a while, breathing deeply with his head in his hands. He could now smell the musty scent of the hut, mingled with the scent of flowers dying in the early days of Autumn.
    A cold breeze blew through the window. It ruffled Frank's hair and made him shiver. It was at that moment that he heard something, the gentle brush of air against his face, the sound of something moving near the window. Was it the wind?
    Frank looked up. He was surprised to see a blackbird. It was perched happily on the windowsill of the hut, it's eye was black and bordered by a ring of yellow. It stared at Frank silently, the silent watcher, the silent waiter...
    "Shoo!" Frank said, he waved his hand at the blackbird but it barely flinched. The blackbird bowed its head and looked around the cabin. It then looked back at Frank with curiosity. It was a deadly curiosity that chilled Frank to the bone.
    The blackbird raised its head.
    "Caw!" it said in its simplicity.
    Frank moved closer to the blackbird, there was something strange about the bird. Frank didn't know what it was. He moved closer and saw his own face mirrored in that beady, black pupil.
    The blackbird ruffled its feathers before continuing its staring contest. Frank stared back with solid determination to outlast his opponent.
    He moved closer, step by step, heartbeat by heartbeat. He was closed to the blackbird now, if he reached out he would touch its shiny, black feathers. He could smell its dirty scent.
    Then, quickly, he ran at the bird. The bird squawked and took off in alarm. It flapped its wings furiously, dropping feathers everywhere. It went flying off across the lake, still squawking in alarm and confusion.
    Frank smiled, he closed the shutters on the window of the hut and turned around.
    "Stupid birds, I really dunno why I watch them," he chuckled to himself but he heard another voice inside his head, it was a strong voice that emanated power, ‘You watch them because you have to, you've seen that look they give you. That deep look they have in their eyes. That pitiful look.'
    Frank shook off that voice. It scared him, he had always had that voice. Perhaps everyone has that voice, that conscience, that beating moral voice of right and wrong.
    Frank sat down again and held his head in his hands. He was looking down at the glittering shards of glass on the floor. The ghostly remains of his binoculars. He continued to stare as the light around him began to fade and was replaced by moving shadows.
    Slowly Frank began to doze until his hands fell limp and his head slumped. He fell to sleep and the darkness became complete around him.
    
Frank woke up and opened his eyes. He couldn't see anything. The blackness of the hut had encased him completely. The stinging sensation in his finger returned quickly and he felt the sticky, blood soaked napkin still wrapped around his hand.
    He stood up slowly and stretched his arms out in front of him. He felt the damp, wooden walls of the hut and followed the around until he felt the groove in the door. Moving his hands downwards he felt the metal knob and twisted it. The door swung open onto a dark track, bordered by tall trees and overhanging bushes.
    Frank looked upwards to see the night sky. Thousands of eyes winked at him from above and the moon shone down in its silvery-grey beauty.
    He took a step outside and shivered as a cold breeze whipped its way down the track, past Frank, and went on whistling through the hut. It blew the pages of his book open and they continued to flip over until it stopped on the bloodstained page.
    Frank breathed on his hands and rubbed them together. He could see his breath cloud in front of his eyes and felt the brief but relieving warmth of it spread over his hands and fingers.
    Frank walked on down the track, treading carefully in the darkness, he saw strange shadows in the darkness. They were moving across the track, always just out of his vision. Who was it?
    Frank was about to take another step when he heard a familiar noise.
    "Caw!"
    He spun around in terror and saw his old nemesis again. The blackbird had returned, its black eyes now twinkling in the starlight. It looked innocent and deadly at the same time.
    "Dumb bird," said Frank but it had startled him all the same, consciously he felt his hands start shaking in fear or was it the cold?
    The blackbird, now barely visible in the darkness, took another step towards Frank. It seemed rather unafraid for a bird. It came within reach of Frank's legs and Frank knew what to do next.
    Licking his lips in pleasure and excitement, he slowly raised his right foot. He watched as the blackbird's eyes followed its movement, higher and higher.
    The blackbird was too slow in its reactions. Frank brought his foot down on the birds head, once, twice, three times. Its feathers flew in all directions. Its squawks echoed loudly through the trees. The forest seemed to go silent with baited breath as it watched the murder unfold.
    Frank continued to stomp, smash and crunch up his foe. He brought his foot downwards again and again. Then, breathing heavily, he stopped and took a step backwards away from the sticky red and black mess that lay in front of him. He stared at the helpless creature, one of its black eyes remained intact, the other was dangling out of its socket and was weeping profusely.
    The bird took one last look at Frank before uttering a final "Caw!" and collapsing in its own entrails. It was dead.
    Frank remained where he was for a few seconds. What had happened to him? He remembered the rage he had felt, that pulsating anger that flowed through his veins had become overwhelming. It had controlled him. The knowledge that he had taken something's life, no, that he had shredded something's life was exciting, it was overpowering.
    He had spent thirteen years watching these birds but only now had he felt a great sense of satisfaction with them. The taking of life played well in his mind, it danced around his brain and messed around with his thoughts. Slowly and surely that voice returned; ‘You remember that pitiful look it gave you? It pitied you Frank my friend, it pitied you because it's free and you're not. It can fly away upon the wind while you are shackled in eternal damnation.'
    Frank couldn't bear to look at the mess in front of him anymore. The excitement was ebbing away and it was being replaced with cold fear.
    "I'm losing it," he said to himself again.

It had been three hours since the death of the blackbird and Frank was wandering down the track alone. His feet seemed to drag along obediently behind him in dull rhythm. He hadn't realised how complicated and twisted the path was, how it spun off several different routes that all led somewhere yet all led nowhere. His clothes were ripped in places by thorns and the bottom of his trousers were caked with mud.
    He shivered. He kept hearing rustling noises, as if something was in the bushes. He supposed it was only a fox or a badger and kept on moving. He was sure it hadn't taken this long to get to the lake.
    "Keep it together Frank," he muttered to himself. He rubbed his hands together for warmth. They were a pale white in colour and his veins were standing out.
    He plodded on down the narrow track. Something wasn't right and he knew it. Something definitely wasn't right. He looked around him and saw nothing but the endless tangle of the thorn bushes disappearing into the night. The track up ahead was empty as far as he could see, but his vision couldn't penetrate some of the darkness. He glanced over his shoulder, the track was empty behind him as well.
    Then what was it? Frank thought about it for a second and then remembered a place where he hadn't looked. Slowly, he raised his head. Inch by inch. He saw the branches. He saw the leaves. He saw the stars.
    He then saw the eyes. They were glaring at him from the depths of the trees. They were all around him, there was thousands of them. None of them blinked. They all glowed a menacing yellow in the blackness. Glaring, glaring, glaring...
    Beads of a yellow evil.
    Frank felt the beads of sweat run down his forehead. He fell to the ground with fear. He opened his mouth.
    "Go...leave me...go..." Frank muttered but the eyes remained where they were. Frank thought they were getting slowly closer. He realised he couldn't keep his eyes on all of them. They were definitely getting closer. They were coming for him.
    He began to crawl. Desperately, he placed his paper cut hand out on the ground and dragged himself along. He kept looking at the ground. He was scared of the eyes. The ground didn't scare him. He loved the ground, loved it, loved it, loved it...
    He heard the rustle of something. Perhaps it was the wind. With a sinking feeling he knew what it was. He knew it was getting revenge. He knew they were getting revenge.
    He looked up and saw them. Those evil, yellow eyes were looking at him. They showed no mercy, just like he had showed no mercy.
    The blackbird stood in front of him resolutely. It cocked its head to look at the pitiful man in the mud. His face was covered with patches of mud and dry blood.
    "Caw!" said the bird and from the trees above came the sounds of thousands of them. All were crying back.
    The birds in the trees took flight from their branches and descended on Frank in a black cloud. Frank turned over, onto his back and screamed as the birds fell upon him. He was kicking and squealing. He felt their beaks peck him everywhere. He yelled with pain as he skin was picked apart.
    Then Frank opened his eyes. The last sight that he saw was the yellow eyes of a blackbird. It seemed to leer at him before descending for its meal. With incredible force it gouged deep into Frank's eye sockets. He was left in the darkness of his mind as his sight left him. He squealed one last time as he was pecked apart
    One blackbird watched from above in silence. One of them had remained behind to watch the revenge. One of them was enjoying the parting of his eyes.

He watched the birds, and the birds ate him.