First Flight

I open my eyes, and the world is bright. The sky, a pale blue, is stamped with white wisps flowing by at such a reduced speed, I watch them carefully to ensure they are, in fact, moving. I look about and note something unusual. The walls are still the same: tan and brown, various shades of the same bland colour, but secure and safe, protecting me. The soft brown carpeting, flecked with white and black broken shards of something—still the same. Everything is as it should be, except I am alone. Mother and father are gone. Sister and brother are gone. I am alone in our cushy, stark home. I peek outside and see a world alive with colour. I see blues, greens, and purples dancing in the wind, leaves the wind bares to new homes, and among the branches of the tree across from our house, fluttering iridescent rainbows, flitting and jumping between the branches.

A bright light fills our home, highlighting the tan walls and brown carpet with soft undertones of yellow. The light is warm, and I raise my head, stretching my neck to lean into the warmth. I try to find the source of the light, but I must close my eyes. The light is too bright. Never mind. I do not need to see the light to enjoy it. I stretch out, allowing the warm light to rest on my body. Beneath my feet, the carpet is soft and inviting, so I nestle down, curling in on myself. I am safe here. I am warm and comfortable. Surely mother and father will return soon, and sister and brother as well.

I relax my body into the carpet, and my eyes begin to close. I will sleep for a while, surrounded by my bland but safe walls, on top of this plush brown carpet. The light will keep me warm, and I will dream of branches filled with rainbows and colours dancing on the wind. When I wake up, I will not be alone, and my family will be home, safe and warm with me.

I wake sometime later, dancing rainbows still lingering in my mind, and I am still alone. The light rests low in the sky and casts long shadows into my home. I peek outside, and the colours from before have dulled and darkened. The rainbows that before were alive and moving through the trees are now far and few between until they all disappear into dark holes and brown bowls. I look around for my family, but the world darkens quickly and soon shadows surround me. They cast monsters onto walls: dark depictions, thin and spindly, with sharp points ready to strike, ready to claw at my flesh until they shred me to nothing. I whimper. I cannot stop, and I cry. My body rocks with each sob, the process of crying absorbing my whole body. Where is my family? Where is father, robust and proud, who stands tall and brings home food? Where is mother? Fair compared to father, she waits with us children at home, waits for father to bring home dinner. She protects us, her children, while father is away. And sister and brother! Oh, I wish they were here, tussling each other for the final scraps, well after father, mother, and I. They are both big and strong, sister and brother. If even just one of them were here, I would be safe.

I am hungry too. My stomach grumbles and growls, demanding food, yet I have none to give. I prowl the carpet searching for scraps, but true to style, sister and brother have found them all and gobbled every crumb. I feel my heart, the beats so strong and loud. I feel it throughout my body, complaining along with my stomach: thump, thump-thump, thump. They march together, my heart and my stomach, protesting this loneliness, this hunger. Outside my home something pants, breathing heavily, snuffling somewhere nearby, searching. I freeze. I dare not move, dare not cry, and hold my breath. Thump, thump-thump, thump: my heart keeps pounding, beating against my ribs. I worry the thing outside, the monster, will hear and come bounding through the walls, tearing them to nothing, leaving them as rubble. I hold my breath, but the beating seems louder, the monster seems closer. I shut my eyes and wait, expecting any minute to be torn apart and swallowed piece by piece.

Sometime later, the monster moves away. I hear it crunching, eating something near my home but further from the walls than before, and after a little while longer, the sounds of the beast grow fainter and fainter until I hear nothing. I still dare not move, and my eyes stay shut. I do not know at which point I fell asleep, still alone within these barren walls.

When I next open my eyes, the light sits high in the sky, bathing the walls and floor in its soft yellow glow. I stretch my body and whimper, limbs aching from last night and the time, however long, I spent holding still. My stomach complains. Loudly. I peek outside, and once again, the winds carries leaves, coloured dancers, and rainbows flit between tree branches. The world outside is beautiful, I feel myself drawing closer to the colour, pressing firm against the walls keeping me safe, holding me in place. I am still alone, no mother or father, no sister or brother, only me in this lonely home. I pace the walls, hunger drawing me to look outside as much as the world of colours and incessant cacophony: shrill chirps and rustling branches, leaves caressing one another in an endless conversation. I cry out, begging my mother to hear, my father to bring me food.

And there, somewhere in the conversation, I hear a call back, long and winded, calling to me and calling me out. I stretch further, edging my neck as high as it will go, stretching my legs. I look for anything, a flutter, a motion, something to indicate the caller, something to tell me where they are.

               “Hello?” I cry.

               “Come, child!” I hear in return.

Finally, on the ground below, I see them! Mother, watching sister and brother, pulling them back when they wander. And how they wander! Sister and brother scurry around, searching their surroundings, tearing the ground apart. They look to me, still in our home, and laugh.

               “Come, child.” Father calls, looking up from the ground.

               “I cannot,” I return, “you are too far.”

               “You are safe, child. Now, come.”

I hesitate, leaning into our walls. They scratch me back, warm and safe, the walls I have known for as long as I have known anything, the walls mother and father built, scraping together twigs and grass, weaving them tight to protect us children. I peer outside again, over the edge of these curved walls, and see my family below, father pulling food from the ground, mother, brother, and sister racing over to enjoy. I feel the carpet under my feet, soft tufts of grass and raw cotton pulled from fields too far for me to have ever seen. I feel the crunch of broken eggshells, and see sister and brother running below on rich brown dirt, through tall blades of emerald green grass. I step to the edge of our home, spreading my limbs. My feathers catch the wind, and I leap.