The Vulture

‘The Vulture’ (Exemplar for AQA Recreations unit, inspired by ‘Vultures’ by Chinua Achebe)

I cannot see them, but I know that they are there.

For weeks now, they have watched me, holding me captive within their telescopic glare. I feel their eyes upon me the moment I bury my face deep in my pillow, yet I am powerless to stop them as they swoop down to smother my dreams.

This world is awash with greys and blacks. There is no colour, no light at all, only emptiness, and nothingness. Yet they are very much real. They sit, two of them, high up on the broken bone of a blackened dead tree, coldly surveying the landscape they have claimed as their own. My landscape. My mind.

I am an untouched island in a sea of ruined corpses; all around me lie the battered and bloodied bodies of the already-dead. It is surely a matter of time before they come for me; is that not what they are waiting for? I give a muffled cry as I recognise the stricken, swollen form of my best friend beside me. Her hair is matted and tangled, and like a curtain, it shields her face from my view. Not wanting to believe, I reach out to touch her, wincing and trembling at the terrible coldness. Gently, I smooth her dark hair away from her face, only to gasp in horror as I realise that her eyes are gone.

I give a shriek, a high, piercing, haunting sound. And as I shriek, the vultures take flight, lifting up, up, high into the air. I look up, and just for a moment I stare at them in awe, wondering how such an awkward beast of a bird could ever manage to accomplish anything as graceful and elegant as flight.

Now, I can smell burning. The air is dense and smoky, yet the stench itself is odd. Familiar, yet alien; comforting, yet strangely disturbing, all at the same time. I inhale deeply, and almost choke as the fumes hit the back of my throat. This, I realise with a sudden rush of panic, is not a friendly smell. I turn to the girl beside me, the girl who I thought to be my friend, and as I see her face again, I scream. An unearthly scream, a scream that tears me apart, a scream that leaves me hoarse and breathless and fighting to scream again.

I want my father. There are many things in this world that I do not understand, but the one thing I do know is that when he is with me, I feel strong. Only he could fight the flames and banish the vultures that plague my dreams; only he has the power to chase off the evil demons that have taunted and tortured me since he went away all those weeks ago. But I know he won’t come. Violently, I turn away from the melting body of the girl beside me, and I try to escape.

“Daddy,” I cry and I whimper, again and again, reaching blindly into the darkness. And suddenly he is there, grasping my hands, soothing me with his deep, lilting voice. At last, I am safe. I sit up, my heart pounding with the effort of freeing myself from the horror-filled depths of the nightmare. I reach for him, and he embraces me, enveloping my sweat-soaked body in a bear-like hug. I snuggle against the comforting warmth of his body; the blue-grey wool of his uniform soaks up my tears, the harsh fabric scratchy yet strangely reassuring against my face. I inhale deeply.

And that’s when I gasp. The smell is on him…it is him. It is engrained in the woollen fibres of his jacket, his trousers, his shirt. His hair. His skin. It is he who has brought this dreadful, cloying stench into the room. The fire is his fire.

I scream then, and he recoils from me, confusion furrowing his brow. His eyes squint down at me, and I am reminded suddenly of the vultures, high up on their tree, fixing their cold-eyed stare upon me, assessing and calculating. As I look up into those eyes, my next scream fades and dies, unformed, upon my lips. I am trembling now, but I can bear to look at him no longer. Balling my hands into fists, I curl myself tightly into a ball, and I turn my face to the wall.

“Sleep now,” my daddy shakily whispers to me, in a voice I realise I barely recognise. “You’ll feel ok in the morning. Go back to sleep.”

I close my eyes again, willing my restless mind to sleep. But sleep will not come, no matter how hard I pray for it. It will not come…

*

Silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway, the vulture pauses, turns. And waits.