Nightjar

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of domestic abuse, emotional manipulation, and physical violence that may be distressing to some readers. Please proceed with caution if these topics may trigger difficult emotions or memories.

I can’t run—too much noise. The last thing I want is to be caught. I gently push the heavy sheets off, fear lacing every cell of my being. As the weight of the blankets lift from my chest, I feel lighter already. A deep, guttural noise breaks the silence. I see where The Monster lies resting. I freeze, my body turning to stone, my chest caught in a vice. Silence returns to the dark room. I barely allow myself to exhale, a shallow breath of relief slipping past my lips.

With the greatest care, I turn my whole body to the side. A sharp soreness blossoms in my abdomen as I curl into a fetal state, the primal state I began in so many years ago. A haunting trill sounds softly through the window, and the nightjar’s silhouette flickers against the curtains as she soars past. I envy the ease with which the bird can so easily escape, how she can simply lift her wings and take to the skies. But I know it isn’t that simple for birds, either. Even free birds are bound by nature’s rules, their wings unwittingly clipped—magnetic fields, primal instinct, the Earth’s revolution—instincts they can’t overcome. 

I slowly sit up. The change in position sends a shiver through my body, goosebumps pimpling my skin. I glance over my shoulder at the dark mass still sleeping, just inches from me. This Monster is unique. Unlike other monsters, this Monster isn’t terrifying in the dark. Here, it sleeps, its growls and roars muted, its limbs powerless to scratch or push or hit. The Monster lies peacefully, unaware of just how monstrous it is. 

I swing my legs out of the bed, first one, then the other. The bare soles of my feet sink into the worn fibers of the construction-grade carpet. It had been brand new when my feet first touched it. When The Monster arrived, the carpet was still good—just a little worn, a few stains here and there. As time passed, the carpet deteriorated, as carpets are wont to do. The Monster was gentle at first, loving, affectionate. But over time, I lost control over The Monster. It started acting maliciously, its quiet, sadistic snarls penetrating my mind, breaking me from the inside out. “No one else will love you like I do,” it murmurs. The day I met the carpet face to face, The Monster had pulled its fearsome limb back, muscles primed and tensed. I saw the muscles and tendons release in its arm as its clenched claw made contact with my abdomen, over and over again, breaking me from the outside this time. “Why do you make me so fucking angry,” The Monster roars. My tear-stained face collected dirt and fibers as I lay against the carpet. I picked at the carpet, tugging at a pilled fiber. I wanted to pull it out, help it escape, but it was woven too tight into the greater mass of carpet. I could not separate the part from its whole. The two were inseparable, held together by so much stitching. They would have to be violently severed. 

I glance out the window. The nightjar perches on a low branch, her dark feathers blending into the night. I see the moon reflected in her eyes. Her long wings are folded tight against her warm body. She lets out another trill, echoing through the stillness.

I stand, feeling my legs tense as they accept the weight of my body. The physical and the intangible both weighing heavily. I am rooted to the spot. Rooted, but unable to break through the soil and embrace the sun. Unable to grow, to thrive, to bloom. My movement startles the bird. Its wings unfold effortlessly, and it glides gracefully from the branch, away into the night.

I have always believed in the adage out of sight, out of mind. But that happened to be The Monster’s biggest fear. If I was out of its sight, I was obsessively on its mind. I could not exist apart from The Monster. My best instincts are subdued and squashed. “You can’t live without me,” The Monster growled gently into my ear, lightly blowing strands of my hair across my face. I can feel a sense of sureness settling into my mind. I can’t hide from The Monster anymore. It always finds me, no matter where I hide. 

A few tentative steps and a loud grunt erupts from The Monster, almost sending me tumbling back into bed. After all, how can I leave The Monster? It relies on me, can’t live without me, loves me, even. I know this is true. I just know it. The Monster has been working on things—trying to be better. It’s been so much better lately. “It will never happen again,” it promised last time. I can feel its adoration in every touch, every glance. The Monster can’t help itself. I just need more patience. And forgiveness. Forgive and forget, right? I have to forget to forgive. But it’s getting harder to forget the terrible things The Monster has done to me.

I glide out of my bedroom door. A small breath of relief escapes as I hear the latch softly catch, locking The Monster in. It’s not much--just a flimsy plywood door separating us. The Monster has easily smashed it down in his rage before. But for now, it is enough. With The Monster contained, a determination flickers within me.

I make my way down the dark hallway. My heart beats with the intensity of fear. I try not to think too much about what will happen if I make it to the front door. I am leaving everything behind. I couldn’t even risk packing a bag or making plans. The Monster would discover my betrayal. Best to leave it all behind. Let The Monster devour the pieces of me, picking its teeth with my remains.

I hurry into the living room, not sure if I am living and thus qualified to be in this room.

The Monster had lived here, though.

The worn sofa, a relic from my parents’ basement. I had done a lot of living on the sofa. I had sat on that sofa with my first boyfriend, holding his hand innocently, ending the night with the softest of kisses. I had giggled with my girlfriends, scrolling the social media feeds of our crushes. It had found its way into my college apartment, the victim of spilled booze and dripped food. Tiny remnants of everyone who had sat on it linger in its fabric, a sort of quiet reassurance that my life hadn’t always been so frightening. But it was also where The Monster had committed the darkest of its deeds. Where it had come into the fullness of its monstrosity. A violent violation. Always remorseful, The Monster buried his sullen, guilt-ridden face in my lap, whimpering softly, tail tucked between its legs. A plea for mercy, for forgiveness—

“I love you. You are my whole world,” it pitifully grumbles. 

“Let’s just forget it. It’s fine,” I reply. 

But I couldn’t forget this. I can’t forgive it. The Monster fixed its hostile gaze on mine, and I folded. I pulled The Monster into my lap and soothed it, reassured it, promising that I would never leave it, never abandon it, no matter how monstrous it became. The Monster was my burden, I had committed to it, hadn’t I?

A soft thud from the bedroom breaks the silence. A flame of panic flares into life inside me. The Monster has awoken. It will soon discover that I am missing. Its paranoia will choke out all reason. A squeak of the floorboard tells me The Monster is on the move. 

My breathing stops entirely. The front door is just ahead.

I freeze, every muscle tensing with anticipation.

The Monster bursts out of the bedroom, eyes wild with fury. It snarls. 

I can almost see the saliva dripping from its mouth.

I move faster but can’t run. Time is slipping away. The Monster locks onto my location. I can see realization firing in its brain. The Monster pivots. It starts to pursue me. 

I open the front door, the knob slick in my moist hand. I slam it closed behind me. The Monster is behind me, but its claws cling to my thoughts. 

I move faster, fueled by adrenaline and a new determination. 

The awareness of my escape has not yet taken hold. My brain and body are too battered to let their guards down. Freedom is so close. The large pine tree looms over my car, casting shadows everywhere. I place my hand on the handle and pull the door open—my escape, my freedom. Above my car, a moonbeam illuminates the nightjar, perched in the pine tree. I approach, and she fixes me with her gaze. Once again, her wings unfurl, their secret strength spreading through the darkness of the night. She takes off effortlessly, gracefully, trailing a soft, rumbling call behind as she flies into the blackness of the night. I have run, but I still cannot fly.