The Nightingale Of The Small Town

Nancy loved singing. She would sing in the morning and at night. Her voice was so sweet, if she lived in a palace, a prince would swoon and get lost in her melodies. She would twirl her body and act with her delicate hands as she sang. Her eyes always closed when she sang, as though she saw her lyrics dance in her mind. Her cheeks grew red and her thick eyebrows smiled, pleased to be with her. She took off into her own world as she sang, giggling and smiling. The neighbors would peek out their windows, their necks dangling low in the sweet air, peeping into the special balcony where she performed. Some would set their chairs in advance on their gallery, with a set of toasts and drinks ready and hot, waiting to be devoured at the right time. The children would merrily dance when she sang, clapping loudly when she ended. The birds would quit all their commotions and quacks and sit perched on the wireline above her sill, waiting. The trees rejoiced and fluttered with the wind, shaking off some leaves which landed right at her footsteps. The nest that sat on one of its branches, with little birdies, moved their tiny bodies with her melodies. The air too seemed to quiet down, just to listen to this particular human. It was a sight so pleasant, the gods might someday descend to watch their creation outperform!

It might be wonderful to have a daughter like that, a nightingale to please the family. To let them away from their day of stress and worry. To have their minds rejoice and their bodies liven. To have their minds left free and happy for a few little moments. To have their hearts mend and their eyes relax. To smile a child's dimple in a world so angry and deaf. In a world where nightmares came to life and mishaps threatened the lives of all. In a world where hideous shadows lingered beside each step, a man took. Behind each silent alley and each fake smile. Behind each false praises and each hidden eyes.

Maybe there was more to her song. More than it appeared. Maybe she hid something in her own lyrics. Maybe she waited for someone to notice. Someone to see behind the cheery curtains her songs weaved. Something so dark that she feared each moment to let people know. Something so horrendous, she never spoke aloud. So, she skillfully weaved them in her songs, interlacing each thread perfectly, weaving each melody at the perfect place, excellently masking her secret.

Maybe, she wished with all her might, that some child, woman, or a walking stranger might just look beyond the sweetness of her songs, and the beauty that it portrayed. Maybe, she sang every day a different song, for someone to decipher and collect the meanings from them all. To join the missing links and fill in the puzzle. To know the truth that ran in her veins, she so feared for it to listen. So feared, she never came out of her house. So feared, she never let anyone in her world. So feared, her doors never opened to any of her neighbors. So feared, she never came out of her house that sat at the corner of the road on the only street of the small town, watching every movement.

She sang each day, hoping and yearning. She sang a new song that her heart narrated so vividly. She smiled and twirled and flushed. She let out puzzles that she hoped for someone to decipher. For someone to save her. Yet, everybody sat and smiled. And listened to the nightingale of their valley. Never, thinking twice what it meant. Never, blinking twice and noticing her eyes closed. Maybe she closed them for she feared they might give her out. Maybe, her soul broke every time they just cheered and clapped. Whistled and laughed. Maybe, inside her, her soul twirled with anxiety and melancholy. Maybe, her hopes were dying out every time the leaves rested before her or the children danced with her words.

For that day came, when her chorus changed. When her heart gave her a fresh new sheet to sing. Her narrator was fed up. That day, everyone noticed. The upbeat note was scrapped. And began the melancholy. That day, her words never rose, they shrank in a deep dark pit for never to return. That day, her heart gave out all the weight she had suffered. That day, her eyes opened- honey was what the kids described them. They had become rusty and hollow like an old bark which might wear off any second. They were not the fresh apple green or the full shiny turquoise, they always argued over. They were of a young girl who never really smiled. That day, the song was so pure and true, purer than any of her other melodies. That day, everyone's eyes glistened. Even the sky started to mourn. The birds howled and moaned. That day, she didn't dance and twirl. She sat on a three-legged stool, set her skinny fingers on her tidy black skirt, saw straight, and sang. Sang from the stoned body, her chest rising and falling. Her eyes never blinked. She didn't stop. She sang. That day everyone's eyes closed. Only her's stood open. Wide and full. 

After that day, she never sang. Many tried to inquire at her door. The children shouted for her to sing, flew paper airplanes at her balcony. They pleaded and cried. Yet, the door never opened. Even the adults tried. To ask about her. To ask about, how she had suddenly disappeared when they had opened their eyes, that day. After a month, the town police had opened her home. They did not find the girl. The nightingale of the town. But found several others. Several helpless others. A life was taken that mourning day. Her cries finally forced open the eyes of the blind. Of the deaf. The payment? Her death.