under the moonlight by ChrisPyTops 18 Aug 2015

Paranormal (Tv Show)

E

M/M

Graphic Depictions of Violence, Chris Rochester/Trevor | Chris Rochester, Zombies, Getting Together, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Hurt/No Comfort, Period-Typical Homophobia, Chris Rochester (Paranormal), Trevor (Paranormal), Original Female Character(s)

Chris is finally going to put rumors about his and Trevor’s relationship to rest. It was only a matter of time, afterall. Canon compliant.

Fritz was stupid for not recognizing what was going on. She knew all about The Twilight Zone episode, okay? The one where the man just wants to be alone and read his damn book. His wife died, his coworkers died, all that remained was the rubble of the library. So, he picked up the first book off the steps, adjusted his glasses and…And…. 

It didn’t matter. Fritz knew the episode. She watched it plenty of times before nodding off to Rod Sterling’s voice. Her couch had a permanent dent where she used to nap after her shift. She wanted you to know this so you don’t ironically point to that parable when she tells you what happened. There are, no, there were hundreds of books, folktales, bedtime stories, movies, TV shows, and YouTube skits imaginable that described what she went through. She got it. Loud and clear. She’s a fucking moron. She shouldn’t have spent all that time scrolling on her phone. She should have just accepted that job offer after graduation and never thought about being happy ever again. She should have found friends offline, met a nice man on a dating app and have inane dinners for the rest of her stupid, stupid, stupid life. 

Well, it’s too late to lecture Fritz now. 

All of that stupid bullshit about working hard and paying off your loans doesn’t matter. The dumb lectures on goals, and mental health. The merits of removing yourself from social media, getting a flip phone to beat phone addiction, logging off. Nothing matters. Not the walking corpses which leave a trail of drying, rancid flesh, not the wasteland of her suburban town, not Fritz. The universe exploded and God rang the bells for judgment day. She will never know the ending of her favorite show. She will never know the writer’s intentions for the final season, or if they fixed the plothole she had been pointing out for literal years now. Fritz gave up a lot for that fucking show. 

She didn’t care that it was all for nothing. In fact, after everything fell apart she was vindicated. At least she spent her wasted life doing something she enjoyed. People hated their jobs, their spouses, politics; Fritz loved TV shows. 

The hyacinth macaw is a parrot that lives forever—well, not forever, but a very long time. It is a stunning, unnatural blue that only Mother Nature could conceive. The hyacinth macaw uses its strong, mighty beak to crack open nuts in the middle of the forest. If its bottom beak would open wide enough, the hyacinth macaw could snap a coconut in two, not even bothering to drink from the milk inside. 

Parrots are fickle creatures with even more fickle habits. A cockatoo will scream and dance and throw your favorite glass vase over the side of the balcony. A budgie will chew you to death, which would take an inordinate amount of time, time the hyacinth macaw has, and the budgie does not. There are folk tales across the sea about African parrots and omens, just as Edgar Allen Poe popularized the raven. All the raven can say is ‘nevermore,’ but an African Grey has been confirmed to say anything a six-year-old can repeat. 

The point is that a hyacinth macaw has the most brutal mouth of all the hook-billed birds, is the longest-lived, and is known as gentle. Yes, gentle. It may be its striking colors that allow it to have such genial attitudes. It is beautiful; do parrots know about beauty? They must. The oldest living hyacinth macaw died at the prosaic age of one hundred and seventeen, or one hundred and fourteen, or just eighty. For all we know, the bird could have been replaced in its mid-forties, and none would be the wiser. We would not settle for such a wanton display of untruth if it were not so beautiful. 

“Ah,” a very beautiful woman told me, “but there is beauty in everything.” 

And I might agree with her if I could stop staring at her perfectly crafted cupid bow, her long lashes, and her big, beautiful brown eyes. Even the barista hesitated to give her a cup of coffee because looking at her hurts—just a little. 

She is a pilot. She landed in my city for just three days before flying again across the world. Her suit is an unnatural blue, only found in unnatural circumstances. Her wings are small metal, pinned to the front of her breast pocket. 

“Is there anywhere you’ve flown that you didn’t find beautiful?” I asked, and the last sip of my coffee tasted bitter. 

She decided to think for a while, leaning her head to the side so her large eyes could follow the trails of an airplane above. Her neck moved, but her eyes did not. I forgot where she came from, but her skin was far darker than I remembered, so it must have been somewhere warm. 

“I don’t like coming home,” she said. “You know how parents get. Empty nesters.” 

Loneliness is universal; even the hyacinth understands what it means to be alone. The species is over-collected and stolen from divots in ancient trees that have been a bastion in South America for years. There was no natural predator of the hyacinth until people learned of how parrots love. 

“I never understood it,” I said honestly. 

A hyacinth macaw should be kept in a cage 34 inches wide, 24 inches deep, and 64 inches tall. It should be stainless steel. They will chew through metal. They will chew through anything if they try hard enough. They will not hurt you. They will not bite. Remember: They are gentle. 

She looked at me funny—the pilot. Like I am climbing up on her arm with my unrestrained beak, and her skin is supple. Flesh. She can hold me; I would let her. I can become beautiful in her arms; she can sell me for twelve thousand dollars and keep me vulnerable. My love is worthy; my love is conditional. I love like a parrot.