Work Text:
The scorching sun of the blazing summer was up high, it's strong rays making the sand below impossible to touch without getting burned. The Dead Bird Desert was an unwelcoming place, always had been, yet there stood a single little cabin in the midst of the relentlessly arid wasteland. The wood of the cabin had seen better days,the paint peeling off, leaving the once strong planks that the small house had once been painstakingly created from in a bad shape. The wind blew through the holes of which the cabin had plenty of, creating an ominous howl. Neither the heat nor the howling ever disturbed its sole resident.
On the decrepit porch of the cabin sat a bird now long forgotten, one whose glory days were long over. The old bird reached for the, by now warm, bottle of whiskey that stood on the flimsy table next to the chair he sat on. He nearly missed the glass as he tried to pour himself a glass, cursing at the bottle that wasn't to blame for his inability to pour the liquid. Rather, it were his eyes that had recently gotten worse. It was vexing to believe that an owl would have trouble seeing something right in front of him, yet here he was. The same eyes that had keenly picked up on every mistake, every tiny error in his work or his subordinates, now failed him. The same could be said for his wings that were starting to shake whenever he had to pick up something even remotely heavy, the bottle just barely light enough for him to hold without his wing shaking as if he was suffering from a bad cold.
Getting old was something that happened to every being, so was dying. Neither concept was foreign to him, but sometimes he truly wished that the end would come sooner. He stared at the harsh and dry environment around him, trying to find something that could distract him from his own thoughts, thoughts that tormented his tired mind daily. He found nothing, it was much the same as every day, harsh, lonely and unbearable, words that many would agree fit him just as much as it does the wide desert he lived in. He briefly wondered what those same people were doing now. The Express Owls, now without any Owl Express to board,likely had to carpool to their workplaces, and were happier than ever that they wouldn't have to face an unexpected movie shoot along the way. In his mind he could hear them, cheering and smiling, just like they had been internally when he had announced his retirement. Those peck necks' eyes couldn't hide their happiness, even if their postures and beaks showed the opposite emotion, he had known that they weren't the slightest bit sad to see him go. Even his rival had looked more distraught when his own crew, despite the jumps of joy that his penguins did. Tears of sadness had been the last things that he had envisioned the DJ to shed at his final day, yet he had still been as spineless as ever, opening the door to his office with a present, only to stand there as he cleaned up his belongings. A brief looked to the floor and a small mumble, that his aging ears had failed to pick up properly, was all he had done to see him off for the final time. The present that had been in his flippers had been discarded in front of his door, with no sight of the DJ. The present contained a movie they had both seen as children as it had been popular, and was directed by none other than the bird that they both admired and influenced their career choice.
A choice, people always said that one can make many choices in life, a bunch of lies! He hadn't chosen what he now was, a forgotten relic of long bygone days that no one even cared about anymore! He hadn't chosen that his wife abandoned him! He hadn't chosen that his daughter only came to him when she needed money, and he certainly hadn't chosen that even his grandkids ignored him! He grit his beak, slamming his claw down in anger, on the table so hard that the glass spilled its contents. The other voice in him spoke up over his anger; YOU made the choices that resulted in those outcomes! There it was, the darkest thought that kept him awake at night and caused his heart to speed up to the point that even breathing was hard sometimes. Had he not worked as much as he had, maybe his wife wouldn't have left him. Had he been more present in his daughter's life, maybe she would see him as family and not just a bank account. Had he cared more about his grandkids, maybe they would have visited from time to time. Alas... no matter what he'd do, he couldn't turn back time to fix the blatant error. His career, the career that had started with a kid's dumb pipe-dream and ended in corruption and pain.
The old owl turned around, peeking past the door frame and into the room behind it, an array of movie posters adorned the walls of the cabin, giving some color to the otherwise plain room. All those years spend honing a craft and dedicating his whole life to it...only to realize way too late that his dream had turned into a nightmare. A nightmare he had trapped himself in, a nightmare that he had seen as a pleasant dream until he opened his eyes from what he averted them from for years.
He looked at the first poster that showed him on a horse with a lasso in hand, it was old and very worn, unlike the younger version of himself that stared back at him with a happy smile and a gleam that was noticeable even on the poster. It was a harsh contrast with the pristine and clean poster for his final movie. Not only did he look terrible due to the stress and him being older, but his expression had turned from one that was once happy to make movies, to one for which the movie was only a stepping stone to reach the greater goal, the golden trophy.
The first place golden trophies of the Annual Bird Movie Awards, the very same things that he had looked at with nothing but pride and joy during his long career, he now glared at with resentment and self-loathing. He had earned the title of one of the best directors that the planet had ever known...yet no one really cared for him. They praised him for the work he had done, praised the effects in his movies, praised the realism...but in the end of the day no one was there for him. His fans weren't there when he felt lonely in his own home. His fans weren't there when he felt like crying from the stress and responsibility that he had to bear. Someone once told him that if he kept pushing people away from him and treated them like dirt, he'd end up all alone. He had scoffed at those words, dismissed them as an empty threat, but their truth was haunting him now.
He could no longer even bear to look at himself in the mirror, the person that stared back at him disgusted him. The mirror was cracked now, a mere tap away from breaking and covering the bathroom in glass shards. It wasn't him, the broken and ancient looking owl wasn't him! No way did his bright feathers dull so much, he wasn't that skinny either, and no way did he look so messy! He refused to listen to the voice that once again spoke up to tell him that the old owl that stared back at him was indeed him.
The greatest director known to bird couldn't look this disheveled, right? The master of cinematography couldn't be so miserable, right?
The Conductor, the owl that had so many fans, wouldn't die alone, right?