Birds are so obnoxious. It’s always my first thought in the morning. Not the damp mouldy air that settles in my cot; not the slop I will be served for breakfast; not the painful loneliness that reaches depths of me I once didn’t know existed – just the birds.
The window – barred, of course – is high above my head, leaving me with the impression that even the squawking nuisances are looking down on me. They certainly have more freedom. Maybe that’s why I hate them.
The door knocks an entrance warning and I pull myself upright, hardly surprised anymore at the weight of the chains. He enters and wordlessly hands me a bowl of pale sludge. I imagine pulling a knife from behind my back and planting it in his forehead, but I have no knife. Knives may no longer exist for me outside of my fantasies. The world itself may not exist for me outside of my fantasies – except for those damned birds.
I glare at my captor. It’s been a long time since I’ve asked questions, tried to reason, or begged for mercy. Acceptance? Not quite. Exhaustion. Yes; that seems more accurate. Go figure, it’s the end of my world and all I want anymore is to sleep in, one morning, and not hear those fucking birds.
Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©