The Aviary

Trapped by your own devices

It sits in there, festering, going about all the necessary processes. The bits of flesh and vegetable plumage receive the proper vitriolic baths. I put it all there. Hand to mouth- Or rather, by way of a stainless steel bridge. Simple, the act of giving your body nutriment. Complicated, the act of falling apart from sustenance.

 

I sit pretty in this cage of iron bars.I curved each one with years of experience. Every angle is polished with spite, envy, lust, dreams, and ambition. The hook that I hang from is an eloquent "D". My cage hangs in an aviary that most haven't seen. They've read about it in books. They've gossiped about it in school hallways. They've seen the birds of my ilk fall featherless in their cages. Though unless they've spent time here, they cannot tell you they have seen it. Or else they're cadmium-tongued liars.

 

This aviary is a strange place. We spend hours plucking and pruning, cursing and cooing- to ourselves and to one another. By my hands only could my wings soar free. By my hands only may I suffer. It is the same for the rest of us. Strange though, clear-veiled, I cannot see another creature nor another cage. I hear them. Are they really there? Suffering like me?

 

And you know? I remember the first day I made my bed in this castle fit for an echo. They left me one tiny paintbrush, just the right size for my hand, and a dapple of red paint. I drew a red circlet around my throat. Guessed it was a reminder of some sort, but I've forgotten what it was I was supposed to remember in the first place. I think it correlated somewhat to these bars.

 

Day by day, or else the times between dim light and shadows, my plumage loses an ounce of luster. I can see shards of it lying like a necropolis at the bottom of my home. My time spent here has been all in the name of beauty. See my lithe frame, a Rembrandt of denial, swinging lightly as time skates by on icy memories.

 

The red is now stained to faded coral and the dust keeps me from singing. My sleepy blue eyes can but half-open against the sunlight that pours in through the high window. I assume that's where the rest of the world looks down on us- if they can fly high enough. Someone has a piano. Their cage must be prodigious. I don't think I envy them, but I envy the talent that coaxes my mind to silence.

 

At the top of my enclosure, secured by a bit of aged twine, is my key. Independent to my own purposes; it answers only to my touch. My wispy head turns, with closed eyes and content grin, to look heavenward at the key. A shudder and I see it-

 

It's all just sitting in there, turning into every kind of evil. I cannot choose the key, now.  My diet has been that of a lilac, until I broke the seal on the seed. My bones have grown weak from years of disuse and decay. But I- I am alive. I am beautiful.

Author's Note

extended metaphor, blah

Reviews

[Scene, not herd]

Mmm this is beautiful. I love the subtle comparisons between your freedom and the fuzzy distinction of the narrator as a human/bird. You use very intriguing terms, "the act of falling apart from sustenance", "Or else they're cadmium-tongued liars" there is true skill in how you choose your words, I only hope to get better and closer to your level of writing! Nice work!