My hands, just too small disks of flesh, clenched and unclenched; flexed and twittered with a vague attempt to grasp the very copper-tinted air I took within myself with every breathe. At my feet lay a mangled feathery mass--dead weight--an eye sore--something that was not worth my time to wring.

I was only seven, but I vowed never again to let my hands touch such filth again.