Last House On The Left

There they lay dead together, two pigeons in the park in December. Necks ruffled feathers a flurry, tattered wings blanketed across the concrete. As sudden as thunder, a dog barks. The pigeon hangs limp between its teeth. Its eyes fixated upon me, I know it's my Mary's stare. I hear it cry out to me... WHY AM I STILL BREATHING?!