The Closet and the Bird and You and Me
I need to vacuum the house, it’s been three weeks and the dust is making me sneeze but I hate you too much to open the closet door. I am afraid of what I might do to you. I don’t worry anymore about what you might do to me.
There is a bird in the corner, it looks at me through one broken eye, the tiny bloodshot redness aching and hurting. I prop it back up sometimes but it always falls back down. I don’t understand. I don’t want it to be hurt, I want it to fly away but it’s cold and it’s hard. I think it’s tired.
…and if I let you out you might start asking questions. But then maybe that’s a good thing, perhaps you can help me. But, I’m not afraid of you, don’t go getting ideas now. I’ll chain you up so you can’t move and maybe we can have a chat, a nice civil chat. It always makes me scared when you thrash like that, struggling and that noise, hurts my ears, I’ll just lalalalalala if you do and put my hands over them so I cant hear you.
I woke up earlier and I felt my heart tick tick tick so fast. My eyes felt popping large in my head but it was ok, I had a good look around the house and I couldn’t find a thing wrong, everything was in its place but I still don’t know what to do about you, you down there, thudding and banging in the closet. I wish you’d stop, I just want to cry and I want to hit things, really hit things. I screamed at the bird this morning, just after watching television, a quiz show about food. I screamed at it. I want it to help me but it won’t. I don’t know what I’ve done, oh, is it safe now?
I’ve made a decision. I want you to go, I need you to leave. I am afraid, I lied about that earlier. I think I may have done something wrong. I don’t think you can help me after all. I think it’s your fault. Really, that seems like the right answer, makes sense doesn’t it, after all, if it wasn’t for you… but the bird told me.
I think the bird is dead. It told me that you did it. I didn’t think so at first of course, we know each other so well, yes? I was angry with the bird. I told it to not be so suspicious of people, especially you, then I went outside and I mulled it over. I was in the post office lining up to pick up the pension when it all suddenly made so much sense. Who else could it be? Of course the bird was right! You always hated him and now, well, now he’s dead. It’s not a coincidence is it? Maybe you always hated me.
So that’s how I made the decision.
I am paralyzed by pain, palsied by your poison; you hateful thing, slick and dank, sweating furiously in my under stairs closet. I can’t hear you right now but I watch the ceiling undulate as I lay on the floor and I feel a little sick. I found the kitchen knife that we thought we’d lost last Christmas earlier today. It was in the washing machine. I must be getting old and daft.
I will open the closet door soon when I stop shaking and crying. I know that I need to do this. It won’t take long but it’s probably about time anyway, it’s been so long since we talked, I mean really talked so what does it matter? And well, you did kill the bird after all, he told me so.