I look back out at the garden and see a robin perched on a fence post. I stare at him while he appears to stare back. It all happens so fast. A mess of feathers in full flight hurtle straight at me with such speed and determination until the glass door gets in the way. The thud of the impact makes me jump and I accidently knock my drink over. The robin´s tiny body falls backward, almost in slow motion, and lands on the grass. I rush to the patio doors but don´t open them. Instead, I stand and stare at the tiny bird lying on its back, flapping it wings in mock flight, its eyes already closed. I´m not sure how long we are frozen like that, the creature fighting for breath as involuntarily hold my own, but time eventually catches up with what has happened.
The robin stops moving, its wings lay down by its side. Its red chest sinks until it is still.
Two tiny legs lower themselves down onto the damp grass.
Right, because that is how birds die. Whenever I see a dead bird lying around, there feet are sticking up in the air. Anyhow, I´m just glad that the author didn´t decide to make this trainwreck of main character an animal lover, who starts performing CPR on a bird.
And based on this prime example of writing, is it just me that feels like this book is badly written?
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