Bird Girl

C/W: physical abuse, self-harm, suicide

                                     BIRD GIRL

            “I’ll be your sister, and you’ll be mine. Okay?”

Those were the words Harper said to me back when we were five, tossing golden lined leaves in Centennial Park. Stems poked out of her long chocolate curls like flimsy decorations, and soot covered her rosy cheeks, but she still managed to look so serious. 

“Promise?”

“Promise.” The other girl in the image, whom I barely recognised but knew was a younger version of myself, would then reply. 

In that moment, Harper had seemed so happy, so perfect, so real… Every time I reached out for her, I had to remind myself it was just a memory.

It’s not real. At least not now. 

And she’s not alive. At least not here.

God, Harper. 

It’s been twenty years, and not a day goes by when I don’t think of her. 

            Our history went far back. Harper and I had been best friends since kindergarten. I forgot how we met, but my mother said it was when we were about two, when she laid me in the kindergarten’s crib next to Harper’s and she suddenly went quiet. Baby blue stared into hazelnut brown eyes, before she opened her mouth and blew a bubble. 

            I giggled in response. 

            Slowly, we became friends. We took our first step together, said our first word just two minutes after each other. The day I turned three, she invited me to play in her mother’s garden. Our adventure was born from that moment onwards. Every day after school, we’d race all the way to her house just so we could get lost in a fantasy world. We pretended we were sisters, pirates, cowboys, spies... The clearest memory I have of those happy times was chasing Harper around the flowerbeds, watching her dark curls whip around her face and seeing the gap in her teeth every time she smiled. 

            Sometimes, Harper’s mother would watch us play. She was a tall, willowy lady with a gentle smile and a smell of roses. But every time she went to sit on the porch, she had to lug around a large metallic container with her. 

            “What is it?” I had asked Harper many times.

            “Mommy won’t tell me. She says it helps her breathe.”

            When Harper’s mother was around, everything was good and perfect. But every timer that awful white van with flashing lights came whirling down the street, people would jump off and kidnap her. They always returned her safely the next day, but we screamed for her to come back anyway. 

            The house became haunted every time Harper’s mother left. After the sun went down, her father would come home. I didn't like him a whole lot, he always looked so frightening and reeked of alcohol. One time, when Harper accidently smashed a plate, he grabbed her by her braid and shoved her against a wall. The red marks on Harper’s neck didn't go away for days. 

            That night, I was there holding her hand as she cried. She seemed so small and delicate as she trembled in my arms, every breath a mere gasp for air.

            “Does he do this to you often?” I had asked her.

            She nodded, tears sliding off her cheeks. “Every time when Mommy’s not around! I tell him to stop but he just doesn’t!”

            “It’s okay. I’m here.”

            “You’ll stay with me, right? Please?I’m scared.” 

            “Of course.”

            To avoid Harper’s father, the two of us would often hide together in the bedroom closet whenever he came home. We always took an old flashlight, a slab of books, and a blanket with us, so we could snuggle up together under the dim light and laugh and tell stories until we were no longer afraid. 

            One of the books we liked most was about two girls who travelled the world in a large hot air balloon, adopting hundreds of birds along the way. As soon as we finished that book, Harper had stated that birds were her favorite animals and asked me to call her “Bird Girl.” Every time I did, she’d always grab a pair of binoculars and a pencil, and we’d draw the story on the inside of the oakwood closet until it was filled with fluffy clouds, birds, and a large hot air balloon. 

            Since then, the closet was no longer just our hiding place. It became our Wonderland, our Narnia, our world where we put on the binoculars and documented down all the birds we saw flying around on the oakwood. We liked it so much we agreed that, once we grew up, we’d make those experiences a reality. 

Then, grade school came. Nothing much changed, except that we had to sit in a boring classroom all day and learn the ABCs. During recess, which was often, we played together.

Most of the times, we’d sit together on the grass and plan out our dream. 

“The hot air balloon should be red and green,” Harper would say.

“And be very large!”

“We can make a room for all the birds we’re going to adopt!”

“Let’s go see Venice!”

“London!”

“China!”

“Moscow!”

We’d make plane wings and pretend we were cruising. Then, we’d fall into a heap and laugh as the older girls shot us weird glances. We didn’t care. We were happy and they weren’t. So what?

At the summer of fifth grade, right before middle school, I went to her house and we drank sweet tea together on the front porch.

“Nothing’s gonna change, right?” Harper asked. She was wearing a white tank top and flip flops, her long legs dangling over the chair. Our pair of old binoculars hung around her neck, the cracking glass held together by pieces of scotch tape. 

“Nope.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, Bird Girl.”

And at first, nothing did.

However, at the start of sixth grade, Harper and I were put in different classes. Our time together was cut short, so we caught up with each other during lunch. 

Every time, we’d chat about the school day and then play our games, but soon, we’d find ourselves stressing out about assignments instead of having fun. After a while, I felt dumb every time the other girls shot us glances, so we eventually stopped doing make-believe. 

 The schoolwork started catching up with me, so I had to skip many lunch breaks to catch up. I never knew that on those days I was missing, Harper was sitting by herself in a lone cafeteria, waiting for me.

            I found myself having less and less time for Harper. My timetables were packed to the brim, and our interests had split apart. I was more into Science and History, while she was into the Arts. 

            Every time I hustled to class, Harper was… I didn't know what Harper was doing.

            Our conversations together became a bit like this:

            “Hi.”

            “Hi.”

            “Well, what are you up to?”

            “The usual,” she’d always say.

            I never had the courage to ask her what that meant.

            “Alright,” I’d reply, finally. 

            And that was it.

            The long hours of bonding and storytelling were gone, and in turn replaced by a vast silence. 

            Then, word went out that Harper’s mother died. 

            That whole week she didn't come to school. When she did, I barely recognized her. Harper had chopped up her long locks before dying what remained jet black. She also dressed like a goth. Now, she no longer had an enthusiasm for learning, not even in Art class, and sat in the back of every classroom.

            The only times she looked up was when the teacher called her name, and even then she looked as if she’d been crying.

One day in the middle of PE, Ms. Wang abandoned us to rush Harper to the hospital. When she came back, she told us Harper had been cutting herself. For how long, they said they weren’t sure, but at least a year.

I heard they placed her in Intensive Care for three weeks, but those were just rumors. I didn't go see for myself, I didn't have the time… 

            When Harper came back, people bullied her where-ever she went. They pushed her in the hallway and called her names and spilt lunch all over her without apologizing. Every time they did so, Harper said nothing. She merely looked at me with sorrow in her eyes, like she was sad to see I was doing nothing about it.

            I never did stand up for her. I was too scared. 

            After a while, Harper started showing up with bruise marks and cuts all over her body. One time, it got so bad she collapsed while running the 800 meters. All the girls at school made nothing of it, they just thought she was cutting herself again, but I knew better. It was Harper’s father who did it.

            Many times, I had taken out my phone unconsciously and dialed 9-1-1. I never pressed the “Call” button, though. Maybe it was that I was no longer close to her, so I felt like I wasn't in the place to accuse her father of child abuse. 

            I didn't know what she would’ve wanted me to do. 

            One day when I was at my locker packing up for the next class, Harper showed up. Her sudden presence surprised me—we rarely talked these days.

            “Hey, Marie, do you have time after school? I need to talk to someone.” She had dark circles around her eyes and was hanging onto the locker in a disturbing way, like her knees could no longer support her up. “Please. Just this once. I’m tired of fighting against everyone.”

            I wanted to agree so bad, but then I saw people watching and filming us. Horror set in. I couldn't—I couldn't let them film me being with Harper… My popularity would be ruined. 

            “No.” I looked down, but I could picture her face falling. I blushed, humiliated. “I’m sorry, I’m busy today. Maybe some other time.”

            Harper gave me a small smile. “Farewell.” She said, finally, with a bit of sadness in her eyes. “You know what? It’s alright. I’m going somewhere tonight.” 

“Well, uh… I hope you have fun.” The Drama Recital was today. I took her words as a sign she’d be performing. 

            On the way home, I started feeling bad about rejecting Harper’s offer to hang out. After a while, the guilt became so unbearable I called my mom to cancel my plans for today. Instead of going home and studying for my upcoming exam, I went back to school and bought the last ticket for McBeth.

            I faintly remember Harper’s role in the play. She told me a few months back that she’d be playing Lady McBeth. However, as the lights went out and the play started, I started to get a feeling of uncertainty.

            Maybe Harper wouldn't like seeing my face amongst the audience. Maybe I should go.

            No. I can tell her I’m sorry this way. Buy her a drink after the play ends and invite her to hang out. Apologize for what a bad friend I’ve been. 

            When the trumpets flared and Lady McBeth entered the stage, I held my breath. But the moment she turned to the audience, I realized in horror it was not Harper behind the makeup and the wig.

            H—how could it be? She said she’d be performing!

            As Lady McBeth stumbled over her lines, I got up towards backstage. Sitting beside the curtains, I saw Director Collins, our Drama teacher there with his head held in his hands. 

            “Mr. Collins, where’s Harper?” I asked.

            He looked up with eyes filled with worry. “I don’t know, actually.”

            “Wasn’t she supposed to play Lady McBeth?”

            “She was but cancelled at the last minute. She didn't look too good, she told me she was going to the hospital for a checkup. We had to find a replacement immediately, so let’s just have to hope Matilda does a good job of remembering her lines.”

            “Wait, what do you mean? She cancelled?”

            “Yeah. What’s wrong?”

            The room seemed to be spinning. “B—but that doesn’t make sense! Harper never cancelled a project she was truly passionate about!”

            Director Collins signed. “Well, maybe she didn't feel exactly passionate with this one.”

            “But that's wrong! She rehearsed for months! She was so excited about playing a member of the main cast!” My heart was racing. What happened? “I’m sorry, I have to go find Harper. This isn’t like her at all!”

            Without waiting for a response, I raced out of the theatre. Grabbing my phone, I immediately called Harper. Nothing. It went straight to Voice Mail. I called the Hospital and asked about her. Nothing.

            The Hospital never admitted a Harper Brookes anytime this week. 

            I started panicking. What if something happened to her? She did act strange all day, giving away all her favorite pens to Stacey and acting like someone died. What was going on?

            Then, the truth hit me.

            When she turned away, Harper had said “farewell.” She never said that before, not even at her lowest times. And then, how could I explain the “I’m going somewhere tonight?” Her family never went on trips or anything, and she was clearly not in McBeth. That could only mean one thing.

            Harper was planning to die.

            I raced for my apartment flat immediately, my heart banging like a kettle drum. Harper trying to commit suicide was crazy, but it was possible, especially now that all the clues added up. I needed to be fast, I needed to stop her!

            “Mom! Mom!” I screamed, slamming open the door. “Help! Harper—she’s—she’s gone!” My mom took one look at me, and we raced down the stairs together.

            We ran all the way to Harper’s flat, before banging on the door.

            “What the fuck?” Harper’s dad opened it. He was wearing an oily tank top and looked annoyed. “Are you mad?”

            “Excuse me, Mr. Brookes, but we need to find Harper—"

            “Your own daughter’s missing and you don’t even care!” I screamed. I couldn't hold it back anymore. “At least let us in to search for her!”

“You…” Harper’s dad bit back an insult and let us in. 

We searched her apartment complex, turning everything inside out, but she never showed up. Frantic, we drove back and searched the school, still nothing. We wandered around the roads calling her name, we raced through the subway asking people if they had seen her.

Nothing. 

            As the trains zoomed by, I sank to the ground and sobbed. Suddenly, I understood what had happened. I was too late, after all.

            “Honey, let’s go search the apartment again. Maybe we missed something.” Mom comforted.

            “No! No… It’s too late…”

            I found out the truth five hours before they found her body.

            She had jumped from the mall’s roof, breaking nine ribs and shattering both lungs. It took the paramedics a whole hour to ID her. 

            Afterwards, everything was chaos at the scene.  People passed by, their faces blurring into each other. Everyone was talking, the medics laying a sheet of white paper on her body before taking her away. A press was snaping photos, and all the kids from our school were crowded there, whispering and talking. The mean girls were pretending to be sad, the jocks were discussing, everyone who’d ever seen her was acting like they knew every little detail about her. 

            They were never there for Harper when she was alive, so why were they here now? 

            Later, I found our pair of old binoculars on the rooftop. It was set there so carefully, balancing on just the tip of the edge, yet not heavy enough to plunge down. Maybe that was the message Harper wished to send to the world, a reminiscing of an old, lost friendship, a remembrance of a closet full of backlogged dreams. Maybe it was the way she thought of life as a fragile balance, as balancing on a tightrope between life and death, that contributed to her final decision of letting go. Or maybe she was just trying to express herself in a simple way, in a way that words couldn't, in a way no-one could make fun of her for. 

            “I need to talk to someone,” Harper had pleaded this same afternoon, with her bony frame leaning against the lockers for support. “I’m tired of fighting against everyone.”

            And then I had ignored her, I had told her her problems could wait. Maybe it was the final straw, maybe that was why she chose to take her last breathes with wind blowing against her face and nothing but blurred traffic lights beneath her. Maybe that was why she decided to take the final step forward, the final step which was a portal between this world and the next. 

            I cried and took the binoculars home. 

            Harper died because no-one cared enough, including me. I wish I could go back and change what happened, been a better friend even, but unfortunately, I couldn't. I dreamt of Harper many times after her death, but not in one did I ask her for forgiveness. I knew I didn't deserve it.

            The only thing I want is for her, I guess, is to be happy. Where-ever she is right now, I hope she’s travelling the world in a giant air balloon with hundreds of birds flocking around her. I hope she’s laughing, smiling, having so many adventures her mind is too overwhelmed to ever feel sad. 

            Goodbye, Bird Girl. 

            You deserved the whole world, even though it didn't deserve you.