My Wife Gave Me a Vengeful Parrot

My wife gifted me an African Grey parrot. Every single day, it screamed at me: Die, brother, die.

I sent it to a highly specialized avian behavioral correction facility.

Every day, they locked it in a mirror enclosure, looping an audio track three thousand times: I am a good bird.

I did this because I had been reborn.

In my previous life, on the very first day this bird entered our home, it only knew two phrases.

"Ugly brother."

"Die, brother."

I thought it was just mimicking something it had heard.

Then, my health began to fail.

It started with insomnia. I suffered through night terrors, drowning in a sea of shadows where a single voice kept repeating "die, die, die."

Then came the anorexia. The mere sight of food made me violently nauseous until I was nothing but skin and bones.

Finally, my organs began shutting down entirely.

It was only on my deathbed that I realized it was never just a bird.

It was my "dead" best friend.

In my last life, I died in a cold hospital room.

I was hooked up to a dozen tubes, the heart monitor beside me letting out a long, piercing beep.

The very last sound I heard before the darkness took me came from Opal, that African Grey parrot.

It tilted its head, staring at me from the windowsill of my hospital room, and let out a soft, mocking laugh.

It was the laugh of a grown man.

I was already too weak to speak, but I recognized that laugh immediately.

It belonged to my best friend, Declan.

The same Declan who had died of a terminal illness three years ago.

My soul drifted out of my ruined body, floating near the ceiling as the nurses pulled a crisp white sheet over my face.

My wife, Amy, stood in the doorway. Her eyes were rimmed red, and she looked absolutely devastated.

She cried beautifully for a few minutes, wiped her tears, and then turned and walked away.

I followed her.

I watched her drive out to a secluded, modern cabin in the suburbs.

I watched her unlock the front door. Sitting inside the living room was a man.

Declan.

He was wearing dark, comfortable loungewear, his messy hair falling over his forehead.

There was not a single trace of sickness on his face. His skin was flushed with health, and he smiled with the vibrant energy of an eighteen-year-old.

Amy walked over, wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead.

"He's dead," she whispered.

"Finally." Declan let out a low, satisfied laugh.

"I spent three years trapped in the body of that damn bird. Every single day I cursed him, and every curse siphoned a little more of his life force away. Now that he's dead, all that stolen vitality belongs entirely to me."

Amy tenderly cupped his face.

"You can finally be human again."

Declan stood up from the sofa, stretching his arms high above his head and taking a deep, greedy breath of air.

"I can finally use this body. Playing the pet bird for three years almost made me forget what it feels like to be a man."

Amy smiled sweetly.

"When you were diagnosed with that terminal illness three years ago, I was terrified I was going to lose you."

"Thank God that occultist told us we could transfer your soul into a parrot and use someone else's lifespan to keep you alive."

"But he specifically said we needed someone with the exact same soul resonance."

Declan pulled her flush against his chest.

"Your husband's soul resonance was a flawless match with mine. His life was practically designed to be harvested for my sake."

Amy kissed his hair.

"Giving up his life to save yours was the greatest purpose he could have ever served."

I stood frozen in the center of the room, staring at the two of them.

My wife.

My absolute best friend.

They held each other tightly, casually joking about how stealing my life was a privilege for me.

I did not cry.

Souls do not have tears to shed.

I simply burned every single word, every twisted smile, and every sickening detail into my memory.

And then, I woke up.

I woke up exactly three years in the past.

I woke up on the exact day Amy brought that parrot into our home.

"Jeff? Jeff, what's wrong?"

Amy's voice yanked me back to reality.

She was looking at me with deep concern, resting a warm hand on my shoulder.

It smelled exactly like her favorite expensive perfume.

I looked down at my own body. My hands were steady, my chest broad. In my past life, this body had been hollowed out, drained drop by drop until there was nothing left.

I lifted my head and looked Amy in the eyes.

She wore a gentle, loving smile, but hiding deep beneath it was a flicker of eager anticipation.

She was waiting for me to accept the bird.

In my past life, I took it with a smile and treated it like a precious treasure.

In this life.

"Thank you, honey." I smiled warmly, reaching out to take the ornate metal cage from her hands. "She's beautiful."

Amy let out a quiet sigh of relief and affectionately ruffled my hair.

"I knew you'd love her. Opal, come on, say something sweet to your new dad."

The parrot tilted its grey head, opened its curved beak, and squawked.

"Die, brother."

The sweet smile on Amy's face froze for a fraction of a second. She quickly scrambled to cover it up with an awkward laugh.

"The previous owner must have taught her that. Please don't let it get to you, Jeff."

I chuckled, gently tapping the side of the metal cage.

"This little thing has quite the foul mouth. Where did you even buy her, honey?"

"A friend recommended the breeder. They specialize in highly intelligent, talking parrots."

Her eyes flickered to the side for the briefest moment when she said that.

She was lying to my face.

"Well, that's fascinating."

I set the cage down on the glass coffee table and playfully wiggled my finger near the bird's talons.

"But honestly, work has been insanely stressful lately. Don't you think having a loud bird in the house is going to be a bit much?"

Amy didn't miss a beat.

"I actually asked my therapist about it. African Greys are perfectly fine as long as you keep their environment clean."

"Plus, you've been working from home so much lately. Having a little companion to talk to will do wonders for your mental health. A good mood means a healthy body."

Her argument was completely flawless.

She had used the exact same lines in my previous life. Back then, I thought she was just being a loving, attentive wife.

Now, I could hear the poison dripping from every syllable.

Every single word was a calculated trap.

"Ugly brother."

The parrot squawked again.

Amy forced a light laugh.

"Look, she's already trying to bond with you."

I did not laugh. I picked up the cage by its brass ring and started walking toward the master bedroom.

Amy called out from behind me.

"Jeff, don't take it personally. She's literally just a bird."

"I'm not mad." I glanced over my shoulder and gave her a reassuring smile. "I just want to spend some quality one-on-one time with my new pet."

The second the bedroom door clicked shut, my smile vanished entirely.

I placed the cage on my mahogany desk, pulled up my leather office chair, and sat down dead center in front of it.

The parrot tilted its head, staring at me. Its beady eyes were gleaming with sick amusement.

I knew perfectly well that Declan was hiding behind those grey eyes.

He was sitting inside that feathered shell, watching me play the clueless idiot for his entertainment.

I had been an idiot in my last life.

But not today.

"Opal."

I called the name softly.

The parrot kept its head tilted, staring at me in complete silence.

"Your name is Opal, right?"

I leaned closer to the metal bars, a pleasant smile plastered on my face.

"It's a beautiful name. Did my wife pick it out for you?"

The bird's grey feathers puffed up slightly.

He clearly hadn't expected me to be this terrifyingly calm.

"But you know," I leaned back in my chair, casually crossing one leg over the other, "I don't think it's a very lucky name. Opals are delicate. They shatter easily under pressure. Don't you agree?"

The parrot ignored me, lowering its head to aggressively preen its wing feathers.

I stood up, moving some loose paperwork around on my desk to look busy.

"Tell me something," I said casually, keeping my tone light as if I were just talking to myself. "If a man is forced to listen to a bird tell him to die every single day, does that classify as psychological abuse?"

I heard the frantic fluttering of wings behind me.

I didn't turn around.

"Die."

The parrot suddenly spoke.

It didn't say the full phrase. Just one single word.

"Die."

The tone was unnervingly soft, almost mimicking a child trying out a new vocabulary word.

But the timing was far too perfect. It was a direct, chilling response to my question.

My hands paused over my paperwork for a fraction of a second.

Then I continued organizing my files.

"You know," I stacked the folders neatly, "you are a very conversational little bird."

"Die."

It repeated the word, even softer this time. It was a calculated test.

I turned around slowly, locking eyes with the creature inside the cage.

It stared right back, completely unblinking.

Then, it opened its beak and unleashed a chaotic barrage of random noises.

The clicking of a tongue, the bubbling of water, the sharp trill of a smartphone ringtone. All blended together in a messy symphony.

It was perfectly standard parrot behavior.

Mimicking the random sounds of its environment.

But those two specific instances of the word "die" had been perfectly timed.

Too perfect to be a coincidence.

I stared at the bird for several long seconds. It stared back.

Something dark and unspoken settled heavily in the air between us.

It wasn't panic. It was a terrifying mutual understanding.

He knew that I suspected something. But he had no idea just how much I actually knew.

And I had absolutely no intention of showing my hand.

I cooked dinner that night.

A simple steak, mashed potatoes, and roasted asparagus. Amy ate quietly, seemingly lost in thought.

Halfway through the meal, the parrot in the living room let out a sharp squawk.

"Die."

Amy set her fork down and shot me a cautious look.

"Please don't be upset with her. It's just a bird."

"I'm not upset."

She nodded slowly and went back to cutting her steak.

After dinner, while I was washing the dishes, Amy walked out into the living room.

I could hear her talking to the parrot. Her voice was incredibly soft, dripping with genuine affection.

"Opal, be a good girl. Say something sweet for me."

The parrot ignored her.

"Come on, just one nice word."

"Ugly."

Amy giggled softly.

"You really have a wicked mouth, don't you?"

I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching her tease the bird through the bars of the cage.

She had done the exact same thing in my previous life.

She treated that bird with more tenderness and patience than she ever showed her own husband.

Back then, I thought she was just an animal lover. I thought her compassion was endearing.

Now the truth was glaringly obvious.

She wasn't being tender to a bird. She was being tender to the man trapped inside it.

"Honey." I stepped out into the living room. "I'm feeling a bit exhausted tonight. I think I'm going to head to bed early."

"Okay." She didn't even bother looking up, too busy tracing her manicured finger against the metal bars for the bird to nip at playfully.

Around ten o'clock, Amy finally came into the master bedroom.

She had just taken a shower, her long hair still damp and smelling of expensive shampoo.

"Jeff, I need to let you know about something."

She sat gracefully on the edge of the mattress.

"I have to go out of town for a business trip next week. I'll be gone for about four or five days."

In my past life, she used the exact same excuse. She said four or five days, but she ended up staying away for a full week.

"Alright."

"I need you to take good care of Opal while I'm gone. And please, don't lose your temper with her. She's just an animal. If she says something nasty, just ignore it."

"I know."

She reached out and affectionately stroked my hair.

"Have you been in a bad mood lately?"

"No."

"Good." She reached over and clicked off the bedside lamp. "Get some sleep."

I did not sleep.

In the suffocating darkness of the bedroom, a faint rustling sound echoed from the cage on the desk.

He was moving.

I rolled over, turning my back to the birdcage, and quietly slipped my hand under my pillow. My fingers wrapped tightly around a small piece of parchment, inked with a heavy warding sigil.

The first half of the night was dead silent.

But deep into the early hours of the morning, an unnatural, biting chill crept into the room.

It wasn't a draft from the window. It was a localized, creeping frost that seemed to seep directly into the top of my skull, like someone slowly pouring a pitcher of ice water over my brain.

I didn't move a muscle.

I kept my breathing perfectly steady and rhythmic.

The freezing sensation grew heavier and more oppressive. My grip on the warding sigil tightened until my knuckles turned white.

And then.

A violent, scorching sizzle echoed through the dark room. It sounded like raw meat being thrown onto a screaming hot skillet.

The unnatural cold vanished in a fraction of a second.

Complete chaos erupted from the cage.

The frantic, desperate flapping of wings slamming against the metal bars was deafening in the dead of night.

The panic lasted for about fifteen seconds before abruptly cutting into total silence.

I slowly opened my eyes.

Pale moonlight filtered through the narrow gap in the curtains, illuminating the desk.

The grey mass of feathers was huddled miserably in the furthest corner of the cage. It was puffed up to twice its size, its chest heaving erratically.

He wouldn't dare try to siphon my energy again tonight.

I calmly rolled over, tucked the warding sigil back under my pillow, and closed my eyes.

I slept beautifully.

The next morning, when I walked out of the bedroom, Amy was already sitting at the dining table.

She had a cup of black coffee in one hand, staring intently at her smartphone screen.

The moment she saw me, she immediately locked the device and set it face down.

"Sleep well?" she asked, her tone entirely casual.

"Like a rock," I replied, pouring myself a glass of room-temperature water. "What about you? I noticed the light in your study was on pretty late."

"Just had to put out some fires at work."

She took a sip of her coffee. "By the way, Jeff, Opal is acting really strange today. Did something startle her last night?"

"I have no idea." I grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge. "I was in the bedroom. I didn't hear a thing."

"Her feathers are completely fluffed up in distress." Amy frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Did you accidentally scare her yesterday when I wasn't looking?"

I stopped pouring the milk and looked her dead in the eyes.

"You think I scared the bird?"

"I didn't mean it like that," she quickly backpedaled. "I'm just asking."

"I know you've been incredibly stressed with work lately, and your moods have been a bit unpredictable. You might have accidentally raised your voice. Birds are highly sensitive creatures. They get traumatized easily."

My fingers tightened around the glass.

She did this constantly in my past life.

No matter what went wrong, she found a way to spin the blame onto me.

When my health started failing, it was because I was "overthinking things."

When I suffered from insomnia, it was because I was "too neurotic."

When the parrot verbally abused me, it was because I had "accidentally raised my voice."

"I didn't scare the bird."

I kept my voice perfectly level.

Amy studied my face for two long seconds before nodding slowly.

"Alright. Maybe it was just thunder from a storm last night."

There was no storm last night. The sky had been perfectly clear.

I didn't bother calling out her lie.

She finished her breakfast and retreated to her study.

After washing the dishes, I walked into the living room. The parrot shifted nervously on its wooden perch.

"Die."

I ignored it.

"Die. Die. Die."

Three rapid-fire curses, each one sharper and more venomous than the last.

I turned my head and stared at the cage.

It tilted its head, its cold grey eyes reflecting my face.

But I could see Declan's shadow lurking just behind those pupils.

The boy I grew up with. The man who stole my wife, and then decided to steal my life.

"Say that to me one more time," I whispered, my voice laced with pure, unadulterated malice.

The bird snapped its beak shut. It didn't make another sound.

Late that afternoon, Amy emerged from her study holding her phone.

"Jeff, I just got off the phone with the breeder. He said Opal's previous owner was a bitter old woman."

"She probably spent all day cursing at the television, and the bird just picked up her vocabulary."

"Oh." I didn't bother looking up from the novel in my lap.

"He said it's just a phase. If you spend enough time talking to her using positive words, she'll eventually learn them and forget the bad ones."

"Okay."

Amy stood in the center of the living room for a moment before speaking again.

"You need to stop ignoring her. The more you ice her out, the more she's going to act out for attention. You need to actually interact with her."

I closed my book and looked up at her.

"Amy. You want me to sit here and have a friendly chat with a bird that constantly tells me to drop dead?"

"She's just a bird!" Her voice finally cracked with a sharp edge of irritation. "She doesn't even comprehend what the words mean! Why are you holding a grudge against an animal?"

"I'm not holding a grudge."

"Then why won't you talk to her?"

I opened my mouth to argue, but snapped it shut.

In my past life, every single one of our arguments ended exactly like this: in my defeated silence.

Because I loved her. Because I couldn't bear to see her upset.

I honestly believed that if I just swallowed my pride and endured it, everything would magically fix itself.

I endured it until the day it literally killed me.

"Fine." I stood up. "I'll talk to her."

I walked over to the glass coffee table and crouched down, bringing myself perfectly to eye level with the cage.

"Opal."

I said her name clearly.

She tilted her head, watching me carefully.

"Say something nice."

She opened her curved beak.

"Ugly."

"Try again."

"Die."

Amy let out a soft, exasperated laugh from behind me.

"See? She's communicating with you."

I did not smile.

"Teach me how to make her say something nice, then."

Amy walked over and gently nudged me out of the way.

"You have to speak to her like this. 'Opal, say hello.'"

She leaned close to the metal bars, her voice melting into a sickeningly sweet coo.

"Opal, hello."

The parrot tilted its head but stayed silent.

"Hello," she repeated softly.

"Hello," the parrot parroted back.

Amy beamed with pride. "See? There's absolutely nothing wrong with the bird."

The unspoken implication hung heavily in the air. The bird wasn't the problem. I was.

She didn't say anything else, simply turning on her heel and walking back to her study.

I stood in front of the coffee table, staring into the cage.

The parrot was intensely focused on the closed door of the study. There was a sickeningly human emotion in its beady eyes.

It looked like longing. Like desperate, devoted expectation.

It was waiting for Amy to come back.

Because the parasite living inside that feathered shell was madly in love with her.

In my past life, the second I was put in the ground, the two of them moved in together.

I crouched back down and rapped my knuckles sharply against the metal bars.

The parrot snapped its head toward me.

"You can stop waiting."

I lowered my voice to a lethal whisper.

"She left."

It tilted its head, as if trying to dissect the exact meaning behind my words.

I stood up and walked straight into the master bedroom.

I locked the door behind me, leaned heavily against the wood, and pulled out my phone. I typed a specific query into the search bar.

"Avian behavioral modification boarding."

I clicked the top result and dialed the number. It rang twice before a woman answered.

"Hello, Avian Echo Behavioral Center." Her voice was crisp and strictly professional.

"Hi, I need a consultation. I have an African Grey that has picked up some severe negative vocabulary. Words like 'ugly' and 'die'. Do you have any intensive methods to correct this?"

"Yes, we do. For severe cases, we utilize a mirror enclosure paired with aggressive positive reinforcement."

"The mirror enclosure is a specialized cage lined entirely with mirrors. Being surrounded by endless reflections of itself induces a highly stressful psychological response in the parrot. While it's in this vulnerable state, we loop high-frequency positive vocabulary recordings. It usually only takes three to five days to completely overwrite the negative programming."

"Will the mirror enclosure cause lasting psychological damage to the bird?"

"It will induce genuine fear, yes. But that is a necessary component of the correction process. Rest assured, our head trainer monitors the birds 24/7. It will not suffer any physical harm."

I remained silent for two full seconds.

"Perfect. I'll drop the bird off on Monday. I want the full boarding package."

I hung up the phone and stood alone in the darkening bedroom.

A cool breeze slipped through the open window, making the sheer curtains flutter like ghosts.

In my past life, he spent six months draining my life away with his curses.

In this life, I am going to lock him in a box of mirrors, forcing him to stare at his own pathetic reflection until he loses his mind.