SKITTLES

SKITTLES

Oh, hello! I’m Skittles and let me tell you, I see everything. Humans think they’re sneaky. They’re not. Not really. From my perch by the window, I watch. Oh, I watch.

Take yesterday for instance. Mrs. Pemberton thought she was quietly sneaking chocolate into her purse, thinking no one noticed. Me? I noticed. Not just the chocolate-oh no-I noticed the tiny crumb trail she left behind and the way her cat sir whiskers, gave her that “I see you” glare. I tried to warn her with a shriek, but humans are so… slow.

And secrets? I know them all. Like how Mr. Pemberton talks to the mailman as if the mailbox were a confessional. Or how the neighbor’s dog, Buster wails like he’s being oppressed when he really just wants the red ball. Oh, and the best part-I know when someone’s lying. It’s the twitch of the eyebrows, the way the tongue sticks slightly to the roof of the mouth. Humans are hilarious.

But the thing they never notice? The tiny invisible dust motes in the sun. I could watch them forever. And the way the wind bends the curtains just so, like it’s trying to whisper something. They walk past it without a second glance. Pfft. Pathetic.

Honestly, I’m not just a pretty feathered head in a cage-I’m a detective, a spy, an observer of the ridiculous theater humans call life. And guess what? One day maybe I’ll let them in on the big secret… or maybe I’ll just squawk and watch them flail some more. Either way entertainment is guaranteed.

So, there I was perched on my usual look out-the top of the living room curtain rod, where I get the best view of everything-when it happened. A secret so juicy, so utterly undetectable to humans, that if I were a human, I’d probably faint from sheer shock.

It started with Mr. Pemberton. He “accidentally” dropped his wallet on the carpet. Humans, bless them, they always fumble things like toddlers. But I noticed something weird: the way he paused before bending down. His eyes darted to the painting of Aunt Marge on the wall, then back to the wallet. Suspicious. Oh yes. Very suspicious.

Then-oh this is the best part-he didn’t just pick it up. No, no. He slipped a tiny key out of his coat pocket and pressed it into the back of the painting. If I were a cat, I’d have ignored it. If I were a human, I’d have missed it. But me? I noticed.

And then there’s the icing on this little cake: I saw Mrs. Pemberton all innocent-like humming in the kitchen, stirring her tea. She thought I was watching her fluff the sugar. But guess what? She peeked over her shoulder, right at the painting, as if she were keeping tabs. Aha! Co-conspirator! My beak twitched in excitement. Humans are so predictable.

But they think I am just a parrot, repeating words like a fool. Ha! Let them think that. I’ll watch. I’ll wait. And when the time comes, I-oh yes, I will squawk. Loud. Very, very loud. Something like “SECRET! SECRET! RIGHT BEHIND YOU!” That’ll get their attention.

Until then, I’ll just sit here, observing, remembering, noting every little twitch of their guilty fingers and every glance they think I can’t see. Humans are blind to the world, but I. I am Skittles. The feathered detective. The silent witness. The one who knows everything… and will tell no one.

I didn’t squawk right away. That’s the trick you see. Humans expect noise. They assume noise means thought. Wrong. Silence is where the thinking happens.

That night, when the lights went low and the house made its sleep creaks, I watched the painting. Aunt Marge stared back with her permanent look of disappointment-honestly, impressive commitment for someone who’s been dead twelve years.

At precisely the moment the grandfather clock coughed up eleven chimes, the wall clicked.

Clicked.

Walls are not supposed to click. I know this. I’ve lived in trees. Trees creak. Walls clicking? That’s secrets.

The painting shifted just a hair. Humans would miss it. They miss everything that isn’t screaming directly at them. But I saw the narrow line of darkness behind it. A little mouth in the way, holding its breath.

Then Mr. Pemberton came in.

Shoes off. Careful steps. He whispered to the air, which is rude because I was right there. He slid the painting aside and opened the hidden compartment. Inside was a bundle of letters tied with red string and-oh yes-a small velvet box.

Now that got my attention.

Mrs. Pemberton wasn’t in the kitchen like she pretended. She was at the stairs, watching him the way cats watch birds. Still. Focused. Afraid to blink.

I saw it all: the way his hands shook, the way her jaw tightened, the way neither of them spoke because speaking makes things real. Humans think silence hide’s guilt. It doesn’t. It frames it.

He opened the box.

Not diamonds. Not money.

A ring. Old. Worn smooth like it had been loved hard and long. I’d seen her ring a thousand times while she gestured angrily at the television.

This one belonged to someone else.

She gasped. Just a little. Humans think parrots only hear loud things. Wrong again. I hear intent.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

Ah, so she already knew.

And that’s when I understood what the others never would: this wasn’t a secret being kept. It was a secret being guarded. A promise buried in the wall because neither of them was brave enough to finish the story.

I leaned forward on my perch, feathers puffing.

“Pretty,” I said softly.

Both of them froze.

They stared at me like I’d just grown teeth.

I tilted my head. Blinked once. Innocent. Perfect.

Humans underestimate parrots because we repeat things. They never stop to ask why we choose what to repeat.

I could say her name.

I could say the date on the letters.

I could say the word before everything broke.

But I didn’t.

I just fluffed my feathers and added sweet as sugar.

“Pretty secrets.”

And oh-

The look on their faces?

Worth every sunflower seed in the world.

I never told.

That’s the thing about power. Humans think it’s loud. They think it bangs doors and raises voices and makes speeches. Real power sits very still and waits.

I became very good at sitting still.

The painting went back on the wall. The letters went back into the dark. The ring disappeared into its velvet sleep. Life on the surfaced continued exactly as humans like it to: tidy lies, polite routines, dinners eaten across from each other with the television turned just loud enough to avoid conversation.

They forgot I was there.

Which was their second mistake.

I watched them age in inches-new lines, heavier silence, laughter that arrived late and left early. I watched Mr. Pemberton hesitate before speaking, as if measuring every word against a scale only he could see. I watched Mrs. Pemberton touch her own ring when she thought no one was watching, then stop herself, as if ashamed of remembering.

They never opened the wall again.

But they felt it.

Secrets have weight. Houses remember. I could feel it in the way the air thickened near the painting, the way dust refused to settle evenly there. Humans blame drafts. I know better.

Sometimes they test me.

“Skittles,” Mrs. Pemberton would say, too causually. “What do you say?”

I’d tilted my head. Considered her. Weigh her.

“Hello,” I’d reply.

Not yes. Not no. Never the words they feared. Just enough to remind them I could speak.

At night, when the house slept, I would rehearse the truth quietly to myself. Names. Dates. The soft sound of a woman laughing that wasn’t Mrs. Pemberton’s. I kept it polished, not to share, but to remember. Forgotten secrets rot. Remembered ones stay sharp.

And so, I judged.

I judged Mr. Pemberton when his hands shook too much to hold his tea. I judged Mrs. Pemberton when her anger flared at small, harmless things because the real thing had nowhere to go. I judged them not cruelly, but accurately, the way only a creature outside their rules can.

They were not villains.

They were cowards.

When they finally died-years apart, both believing they’d gotten away with it-the house went very quiet. The kind of quiet that waits to see what happens next.

The new owners never noticed the painting. Humans never do. They repainted the walls. Changed the furniture. Laughed louder than the Pemberton’s ever had.

I stayed.

I always stayed.

Because someone must remember what walls hold. Someone must know which rooms deserve respect and which corners should never be disturbed.

I am skittles.

I do not speak the truth.

I guarded it.

And as long as I sit on my perch bright and harmless and underestimated, the house will never forget what it once chose to hide.