wing-fic -- the return
untitled06 wanted something inspired by this painting
I know he's not like me. It's dangerous to stay here. I don't want to stay here. The air smells of danger and human sweat. I know he's not like me because his skin is white and bare and smooth. I wonder if he's cold? I would be cold, without my warm feathers. I should leave here, I know. I'm free to go, I could just fly away in an instant. It would be so easy. And yet I wheel around in circles, flapping up to the roof, and back, I'm half out of my mind. The man with the rope shouts, he almost clips my wing with it. Ah, ah, I don't know where I'm going. The window, the roof. The boy. He's not like me, and yet.
The woman is not screaming, but her voice is high and it frightens me. She and the man struggle, I don't know. Do they fight? I have seen dancing like this, once. Why does he not cry out? The boy. He is not like me. His little sticks. They fall to the floor, clatter, clatter. The boy is on the floor, the man pushes him down. The man moves fast, red whips around him. The boy is silent. Why is he silent? He is not like me.
He is not like me, and I do not think his eyes would be like mine, if I could see them. Mine are black, I have seen them in water, when I lean down to drink. I imagine his eyes would be the same as the thing that hangs around him, soft, clear, light. I imagine they would be like the water. I fly, around, around. The man snaps his rope at me, he is angry. He wants to hurt us. Oh, I am afraid. I cannot find how to get out.
He is not like me, but he has feathers like mine. He has wings, like I do. Why does he not fly away? Why does he not leave this dark place, these heavy, loud people? He must remember how it feels to turn into the wind, the cut, the rush. Why does he not fly? We could soar up into the sky, he and I, we could wheel in circles near the sun. How clean it would be. I wish. I wish one of us knew the way out.
I know he's not like me. It's dangerous to stay here. I don't want to stay here. The air smells of danger and human sweat. I know he's not like me because his skin is white and bare and smooth. I wonder if he's cold? I would be cold, without my warm feathers. I should leave here, I know. I'm free to go, I could just fly away in an instant. It would be so easy. And yet I wheel around in circles, flapping up to the roof, and back, I'm half out of my mind. The man with the rope shouts, he almost clips my wing with it. Ah, ah, I don't know where I'm going. The window, the roof. The boy. He's not like me, and yet.
The woman is not screaming, but her voice is high and it frightens me. She and the man struggle, I don't know. Do they fight? I have seen dancing like this, once. Why does he not cry out? The boy. He is not like me. His little sticks. They fall to the floor, clatter, clatter. The boy is on the floor, the man pushes him down. The man moves fast, red whips around him. The boy is silent. Why is he silent? He is not like me.
He is not like me, and I do not think his eyes would be like mine, if I could see them. Mine are black, I have seen them in water, when I lean down to drink. I imagine his eyes would be the same as the thing that hangs around him, soft, clear, light. I imagine they would be like the water. I fly, around, around. The man snaps his rope at me, he is angry. He wants to hurt us. Oh, I am afraid. I cannot find how to get out.
He is not like me, but he has feathers like mine. He has wings, like I do. Why does he not fly away? Why does he not leave this dark place, these heavy, loud people? He must remember how it feels to turn into the wind, the cut, the rush. Why does he not fly? We could soar up into the sky, he and I, we could wheel in circles near the sun. How clean it would be. I wish. I wish one of us knew the way out.