This is one of my stories from Suppose: Drabbles, Flash Fiction, and Short Stories.

Does the punishment fit the crime?

—

A cold draft assaulted Vito. The distortion of time made it impossible for him to know how long it had been since he last saw Carmen. Darkness was constant, day and night. Dim shadows and shapes lurked, never revealing their true forms in the murky dampness.

He rattled the bars and tried to breach the door; searched for weaknesses in the cell.

Cold metal blocked every attempt.

Vito hung his head and closed his eyes. He groaned, beset by a chill that shivered through his frail body, a chill as inescapable as this dank dungeon.

Conditions had been good before the transfer. The meals were regular, and Carmen escorted him out of the cell every night for exercise. He enjoyed the interactions with his jailer. Over the months, they developed a rapport. In fact, Vito fell in love with her. Who could resist her soothing voice? Her soft fingers? Her sweet smell? But for some inexplicable reason, she had transferred him to this cement-encased expanse somewhere in the bowels of the earth.

A distant noise. Carmen? It had to be her! He shrieked until his voice grew hoarse. However, after several unsuccessful minutes of desperation, exhausted by his efforts, he slept.

Nearby sounds startled Vito awake. But an eternity passed before Carmen approached and light flooded his surroundings. He called out a cheerful greeting.

She ignored him, her back turned, as she rustled about in a distant corner. The sound of running water and the scent of fresh food tormented his empty stomach.

He ran through his entire vocabulary of English.

Still no response.

Food and water appeared through the slots in his cell.

He yowled. Carmen scowled at him.

Ah, finally some attention! She unlocked his prison and patted him on the head. “That’s enough. You be quiet, Vito.” The door clanged shut.

He tried every trick he knew and reached through the bars in a plea for mercy.

Carmen flipped the light switch off, and the basement became bleak once more. Her heavy footsteps faded as she climbed the stairs.

The umbrella cockatoo uttered a sad gurgle.

And he plucked another bloody feather from his almost-bare chest.

—

You’ll find more short fiction like this in Suppose: Drabbles, Flash Fiction, and Short Stories.

Although this piece is fiction, the situation is not. Millions of birds like Vito need care or rescue after their novelty wears off. Many caregivers don’t realize how intelligent birds are, and have no idea of their emotional needs. Please support your local bird sanctuary.