#mine. looked. SO bright. you could draw every vessel in my eye perfectly. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theacruzelle · 6 years

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Sharp panic, twisting, tangling my insides.

Melancholy song fills the air, lilting over the wind, like a freighter vessel crashing over heavy waves. The clouds roll in, little sneaks, tiptoeing over the sky, mischievous grins alighting their faces. Small blue wings beat up and down, my frantic fluttering drawing attention. It’s not every day a grown bird fails the flying test.

Meaningless drifting, fervent hope for a landing. Maple trees surround, wet leaves slapping against my body, throwing me further off course. Large droplets of water slide down my feathers, an odd, oily sensation.

I’m finally on the ground. Talons sink into the rocky earth, my beak snapping loudly.

Confusion. Gathering in a tangle, tugging the sides of my little bird stomach, gravel sanding down the lining.

I hop along the dirt. Squirming creatures traverse the blades of grass, numerous pairs of eyes blinking nervously in my direction.

“Hello.” I chirp, stopping in surprise. The intention had been for conversation, but speech capabilities were forgotten. They merely scatter, burrowing into the earth for fear of the danger I pose. It had been a loud squawk, certainly not attractive nor benign.

My journey continues, an astronaut bounding over the moon’s surface. Hollow bones—that’s why I’m so light. It’s a freedom, the desire tugging at my chest —try the skies again.

Five minutes ago I lived a different life. My worries included my grandmother’s cigarettes; Grady Pearson—who spent the majority of English class irritating from the desk behind mine; and Mr. Cosman, the reincarnation of Nero.

“Oh birdie!” A small blonde bounces up, not yet learned in the art of tiptoeing. “Mom look!”

“Mom” mutters a “that’s nice,” and continues to text, her cheetah thumbs bolting about the touchscreen.

The girl pouts, button nose scrunched, flipping her pigtails behind the puffed sleeves of her blue princess dress.

“Stupid bird.” She winds up, going to kick me, neglected eyes viewing a useless soccer ball.

Indignant squawking and screeching occurs, and I take to the overcast sky, my flight still awkward and off balance.

“Marissa!” Scolds the mother, curling her manicured fingers around the girl’s wrist and tugging the offender away.

The predators are different, but they exist all the same. Adrenaline courses through my veins, running a race that burns and excites.

A song passes my syrinx, pure instinct behind each sacred note. I glide on the wind, searching for something, though I know not yet what.

Up ahead is a tree, a poplar, taller than all the rest. The branches wind around the trunk—like a shield—whistling words of comfort and safety to the one it protects.

My talons clench around a green branch, head whipping this way and that. The eaves protect, sheltering from wind and rain. Shaking violently, I upset the gathering of water from my feathers, fluttering my wings in an attempt to become dry once again.

A screech startles me from my thoughts. This tree is not as empty as originally imagined. Flying down to my branch is large hawk, maliciously snapping his crooked beak. He outstretches his wings—showing the brown speckles of his feathers—an attempt to make a bigger impression.

I bow my head, keeping my eyes from meeting the predator’s. My goal—make it out alive. My exact size is not known, but I am aware of my low chances.

The branch shakes with the hawk’s weight. He tries to intimidate, screeching and flapping his wings madly in loud clamor—hopping closer, nearer...

Rolling my head and eyes to the side, I drop from the tree. It’s a free fall, and the hawk can only watch curiously as I get closer and closer to the ground. My fate is fast approaching.

An outstretch of wings, a frantic fluttering, and I pull a Wronski Feint, swerving up at the very last moment.

As swift as possible, I’m beating against the wind, wishing I didn’t hear that squawk of outrage, the takeoff.

I’m navigating unfamiliar suburbs, and the hawk is fast gaining. He hisses insults, mocking laughter curling from his throat.

There! A birdhouse. It’s newly painted, small, and the nearest shelter in sight. I duck inside, tucking myself in a ball.

Talons land on the roof, and he shakes the house vigorously. An earthquake rocks my only hope for survival, throwing me about, a little slip of fluff.

This is where I’ll die.

“Hey! Shoo!”

Hailstones pound against the box, an indignant screech from the hawk.

My ears echo with silence, ringing. I almost died byway of a hawk. It’s embarrassing how quickly this gift has gone to the dogs.

“Hello there.” A brown eye peeks through the door, long, black lashes blinking at me.

“Hello.” I chirp, shaking my tail feathers. The world won’t stop spinning.

“I’m not going to hurt you, my name’s Noah.”

I hop forward slowly, head cocked to the side. As my savior he’d be less likely to injure me, yes? One more bounce and I’ve planted myself on the soft, tender flesh of his hand. His skin is ghostly white, splattered with large brown freckles. On his head is a mop of red hair, from which two ears poke out obnoxiously.

“That was a nasty bird, wasn’t it.” Says the boy absentmindedly, stroking my back.

I nod, and he smiles, sitting down on a lawn chair with me in hand.

Noah hums, “I know lots of guys like that, just picking on anyone smaller.”

And that’s how our friendship begins. Every afternoon he arrives at my birdhouse, bearing seeds and fruit for me to partake in. Then he does his homework on the deck, or talks, or stares at the perfectly whitewashed fence.

Noah has a brother named Jason. He doesn’t talk much about him, but from his tone of voice I suspect the two have little to no respect for each other. Jason is in his early twenties and lives at home—without paying rent. He comes and goes as he pleases, often drunk. One night he managed to scale the fence and sneak in through the back. I’m the only one that saw.

It’s Saturday, and Noah is late. Or at least, I think it is a Saturday. As a canary I strongly doubt my sense of time.

I hop around in circles, keeping watch from the patio furniture, hoping for the moment the door would slide open.

“Hey Blue.”

A frantic fluttering of wings, I land on his shoulder, expectant eyes fixed on his freckled face.

“It hasn’t been that long.” He dimples, “I told you, I work on weekends.”

He’s only fourteen, yet Noah is the closest thing the Cohen family has to a responsible male figure. Jeanie, his mom, works all day, gone from 8-8. Noah does the shopping, the cleaning, spending the rest of his time in his room, never a word of complaint.

I admire him.

The sun sets over the horizon, and I stop a moment, giving it my full attention. The yard is small, nothing but my birdhouse within. We’re on the porch, the fresh wood smell prevalent. Noah’s father built it before he left.

Noah must be distracted too, because we both jerk when there’s a crash.

Again. Metal against metal, the sound similar to the crushing of a tin can. The fence gate cracked open, revealing Jason and a pretty blonde. They stumbled forwards, wrapped up in each other.

“Hem, hem.” Noah coughed, finally raising their attention.

“Hey look, it’s my little brother and his pet.” He spat the last word, making it seem stupid and immature.

“Jason,” Noah drooped, his hand coming up to stroke my back.

“Noah,” Jason sung, leading the intoxicated girl into the house, the two stumbling back and forth, walking over an earthquake only they could feel.

“So, that’s my brother.” He fished a graphic novel from his bag, embarrassed to admit it, even to a bird (or so he thought, anyway).

I desperately wanted to help, wished to be able to fix, yet what could I do? Even in my human form I had no power, and as a bird all that could be done was to bring comfort.

You’re not a superhero.

It isn’t some big moment. There isn’t flashing lights, screams, explosive emotions. There is no reason for it to happen—yet it does.

Noah is at the patio table, working away at his calculus homework. I bound away along the grass, searching for picky bits (aka creepy crawlies).

One moment I’m a blue canary, the next—I’m not.

I twitch, my hands digging into the soft, wet grass for the first time in weeks. Attired in human skin and clothes, I stand, legs wobbling.

“Blue?” Noah’s face is flushed of colour, his freckles popping more than ever. A galaxy traces over his cheeks and nose, a universe.

“Hi Noah.” His lips tremble, eyes flickering back and forth over my form.

“Please don’t hate me. I didn’t mean to—”

“Are you a human that turned into a bird? Or are you a bird that turned into a human.”

I giggle, finally figuring out how to sit up. “I’m human.”

“How?” He comes closer, plopping down beside me, but not too close.

“It just… happened.”

A squirrel bounds along the fence.

“You just magically morphed into a bird?”

I nod, grimacing at how stupid that sounds.

“Um,” I stick out my hand, “My name’s Emily.”

He grins, “Nice to meet you.” Noah clasps his hand around mine, hesitantly, covered in a cold sweat.

“Back at’ya.”

I don’t want to go back yet, and Noah can see that. Jeanie isn’t due to be home for a couple of hours, so he invites me onto the porch, thumbs twiddling.

“Blue—er—Emily?” His cheeks go red, “Aren’t your parents wondering where you are?”

Leaning back, my hand taps against my chin, face passive. “Probably not.”

He frowns, incredulous. “Wha—”

“They’re dead.”

“They’re dead?”

“I live with my grandma.”

“You were gone for over a week.”

“She doesn’t give a crap.”

Noah’s mouth nearly hits the ground. “Is she… abusive?”

“Pft, no, no of course not. I should—I should’ve tried to go back, but... “

I wiggle my toes, having long freed them from their cages.

“No responsibilities.” He smiled.

“Yeah,” I scratch the back of my head.

“Ooh, lookie here! Noah has a girly friend!” Jason leans against the doorframe, mocking eyes, dancing eyebrows. “Does mom approve of you being alone with her?”

Red sweeps across Noah’s skin, the tips of his ears bright and glowing. “Piss off, Jason.”

“Jason Cohen, pleased to make your acquaintance.” he holds his hand out to me. I stare.

“Emily Desdale, decidedly not so.”

Jason bursts into loud guffaws. “She’s a proud one. Good job, little brother.”

He leaves.

I wish I was a superhero.

“Well look who’s back. How were the streets, kid?” Grandma takes a long drag of her cigarette, playing with her bleached blonde hair.

I merely stare. There’s nothing I can say. I hadn’t wanted to return.

The house is a mess, more than usual. Dishes are piled high in the sink, everything covered in a layer of dust, couches barely seen underneath piles of clothes. All is soaked with the smell of smoke—something I only notice because of the two weeks we spent apart.

I get to work, scrubbing, arranging, sweeping, mopping. Grandma grins whenever I pass, laughing more at the refusal to make eye contact.

“Looks like they made their mark.” She chortles.

Cleaning lasts for the day’s entirety, and at eight o’clock she leaves for her boyfriend’s place. The house is finally empty, finally clean. I lie on my dingy old cot, counting the cracks in the ceiling.

There’s 37.

Lights gleam over the streets, an illusion of their power created by way of the fog. Dilapidated sneakers flop over the sidewalks, slapping furiously. Breath wheezes from my throat, but I don’t slow the pace.

The air lies thick on my skin, it’s as if I’m swimming through a dream.

A stitch stabs at my side; I want to double over. I don’t.

There’s a bird sitting on the fence of his yard, head crooked to the side. Its feathers are a mottled grey, eye focused on me. A pigeon.

I don’t know how long we stay there, staring at each other. At one point, it shakes its head, furiously, as if sneezing.

“Emily?” Noah walks into view, fire blazing about his head, no it’s merely a trick of the light. “Are you okay?”

I smile small, “Not really. I’m sorry. It’s super late, I should just—”

A hand curls softly around my shoulder. Turning me back towards him, he awkwardly scratches the back of his neck.

“Do you want to stay for a bit? I don’t—it would be nicer with you here.”

“Okay,” I say softly, sticking my hand in his.

We lie on our backs, staring at the bright quarter moon, the soft grass whistling in the breeze.

“I wish I could be a bird again.” I whisper.

“I wish I was one too.” He squeezes my hand.

Dimpling, I turn to him, supporting my head on my palm. “Then we could fly off into a distance.”

“Never anything to bother us again.”

“No stupid family.”

“No obligations.”

“No age restrictions.”

We dream of a happier life that’ll never come. We’re safe, invisible, under the moon’s protection. Monsters don’t exist. They never did.

The sun begins to rise. The moon lowers, and with its disappearance goes our confidence. We look into each other’s eyes, knowing the world will soon need to be faced.

“Hey Casanova!”

The clink of a fence gate.

We jump up, our hands still entangled.

Jason is alone this time, his speech slurred and slow, yet his feet planted surely along the ground. He comes closer, closer—

SMACK! Jason’s fist collides with Noah’s freckled face.

“Jason! Jason stop! Why are you—?”

Noah tries to put up a fight, punching, but Jason merely catches his brother’s fist, socking him again.

“Stop, stop!” I screech, running forwards. Attempts to place myself between them only leads to my head slamming against the wooden fence.

The redheads continue the battle; Noah is on the ground now. Futile attempts are made to protect his face, his brother not listening to either of our pleads. Skin is breaking, each punch just as solid as the next, becoming more frenzied, stronger as Jason spirals.

He’s not fighting Noah anymore. No, he’s fighting his Dad—he’s fighting the one that left.

My head is pounding, consciousness slipping away with each second that passes. My limbs are numb, unattached. Do they really belong to me?

What is—oh right, they’re fighting. What was I—?

I need to stop them.

Shimmying myself back to standing, my hands slide along the wood, pinpricks piercing the soft flesh of my hand. I stumble forwards—

There’s darkness, pain everywhere, spreading from my head down.

My throat is desert dry, eyes stuck over with glue. Rhythmic beeps sound throughout the room—they belong to me. My hands slide along a coarse blanket. I’m dressed in a gown.

“Emily Ross?” A woman is at my side, dressed in an ill-fitting blue uniform.

“Ye—a?” I croak. The room closes in, yellow, peeling wallpaper looming over me. Something has happened.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Her smile is fake, just like her ruby red lips. “You’ve suffered a mild concussion, are you able to answer some questions?”

I gulp down some water, then nod.

“Great!” She squeaks, “I’ll send him in.”

The nurse is gone before I can ask for—

“Miss. Ross?” A policeman enters the room, deep bags under his eyes, half bald.

“Um, hi?”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, I mean—”

“That’s good,” he pushes on, taking out a notepad and a pen. “Now, what were you doing on Walnut Grove Street during the fight that took place between the two Cohen boys?”

“You call that a fight? Dude, Jason was beating on Noah for no reason.”

He gave me a smile, barely constraining his irritation, “Answer the question, miss.”

I sit up, eyebrows raising. “Well, sir, I was out for some air. Noah and I are friends.”

“You were out for some air.” He said in disbelief.

“Yes, look, what do you want?”

The policeman hesitated, leaning towards me. “Is your grandmother abusing you?”

“Is that what this is about? No! A thousand times no! Why are you concentrating on that? Noah is obviously the kid that needs help.”

“Miss. Ross, I think we should be the judge of that.”

“Like you know him at all!”

He threw his hand up, speaking with a patronizing tone, “I think that’ll be all today.”

“Wait! Is Noah alright?” I jump to my feet, tethered by the needle in my arm.

“Kid.” He turned around, meeting my eyes. “Noah’s dead.”

The policeman walked away, shoulders burdened, step heavy.

You’re not a superhero.

Inspired by

A Boy in Fiddler’s Green—The Tragically Hip

Birdhouse in Your Soul—They Might Be Giants

#writing shortstory

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