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Many people tell Parrot his intelligence is God-gifted; extraordinary. Even so, despite being one who grasps concepts easily, Parrot still hasn’t understood how grief works.
The first time he was met with grief, its feeling was bitter. He had watched his own friend’s throat get slit before his very eyes.
And he couldn’t do anything about it.
LuigiToan died and Parrot could only watch his blood pool over the ground below.
Tears were fast to blur his vision. With his last remnants of hope, Parrot sought revenge. His grief transformed and took the form of anger.
And Parrot had thought then, “grief must be akin to anger.”
…
However, Parrot’s assumption had been wrong. When grief struck him again, it took the form of guilt.
Dean didn’t have to fall into the void1. If Parrot had forgiven Dean from the start, they would’ve reconciled faster and Dean wouldn’t have been left alone in the dark.
Parrot still imagines: if he’d stayed longer at Dean’s house, fishing at the river or helping expand the house, a thorough conversation would’ve softened his heart frozen in anger.
All of this could have been prevented if Parrot had only been faster to forgive.
…
Since then, Parrot learned to forgive quickly. But oddly enough, grief still faced him. It was as if the world was mocking him for his useless effort.
Since then, Parrot did his best to prevent more death (so that grief could no longer find its way into the blood in his veins).
Parrot learned to be forgiving, Parrot learned to conceal anger.
Even when Wifies became the Director2, Parrot tried to understand. Maybe by waiting patiently, Wifies would realize that all Parrot wanted was for their friendship to return to the way it was.
But they both were stubborn. Wifies longed for a perfect world for just the two of them, and Parrot longed for freedom.
And although Parrot initially wanted them to go back to how they used to be, he understood that Wifies wouldn’t want to leave their perfect world. The Wifies he used to know was still there, but that Wifies had gone too far for Parrot to reach anymore.
So Parrot left him the symbol of their friendship. He dropped the spyglass for Wifies—for his friend to have something to embrace before his body was reduced to ash.
As the explosion rang in his eardrums, Parrot knew that his best friend had left this world.
All he could do after was sigh. Maybe out of exhaustion, or because he could finally breathe in the air of freedom.
Parrot was certain that he’d grown numb to death, then. He didn’t feel an ounce of grief, even after his best friend had died a horrible death.
Perhaps it’s because Parrot still didn’t get how grief worked, or perhaps because he never considered Wifies his friend at all?
After everything, his life presumes as normal, and the world keeps spinning faster than Parrot could keep up.
New people come, he faces new adventures. There are no tears, there is no anger, there is no guilt.
Parrot is fine.
…
There’s a problem with the world, or maybe with himself.
Parrot is frozen for a moment in front of two sturdy pillars, despite their destroyed surroundings. Parrot’s memory returns to a long time ago, to a tomb that’s been buried far back into his mind.
Theo asks what made him stop at these pillars.
“Oh, nothing,” he replies, and he proceeds in his path. At that moment, he couldn’t express his feelings in words.
—And unfortunately for him, that feeling kept on coming back. Again and again, until not a single night brought peace to him anymore.
Since he’s left Paragon, his best friend’s perfect creation, Parrot hasn’t had time to understand any of his feelings.
The world moves faster, with its overwhelming crowds. The only thing Parrot can do to survive is to run,
and run,
and run,
until his limbs grow weak.
And when his limbs stop competing with time—when his mind went still enough to hear his own heart beat—Parrot thinks he finally has the time to contemplate.
When his body stops trying to survive, it’s as if the world both stills and bustles—the city’s liveliness also fades with it.
Now, it’s just him alone, the sheets of feather on his wings, and the poison that clogs his throat.
His breath is choked, silence making his head spin. His hands are flailing around desperately. His mouth is crying out for help with a voice that never comes out.
Parrot yearns for the world of the past. Parrot misses the friends that’s long been killed by his own two hands.
If this is what the feeling of grief is like, then there must be something wrong with how grief works.
Because it’s never how he thinks it works; grief also comes with a rush of adrenaline—which makes his body go numb when a sword slices through skin.
When his skin tears apart and blood is scattered about, he doesn’t feel any pain. But when he sees that the wound has dried itself up, only then does the burning feel agonizing, to the point where death would be kindness.
There is something wrong with how grief works. Or perhaps there’s something wrong with how Parrot understands grief.
And if there’s a way to get rid of grief—whether it’s strangling his neck or falling into the belly of the Earth or exploding into smithereens—Parrot will do it.
After all, this world seems to have chosen to make his life miserable.