Something Has Happened

By Maeve Evans

There is water all around me and I am drowning. It fills my mouth, floods my nose, pops my eardrums, and chokes my lungs into solid sponges. I cannot breathe. I struggle against an unforgiving current, grasping for purchase, but there's nothing there. I’m in a black pit of merciless water. It strangles me, tightening an unforgiving grip around my neck. I gasp, breathing in salt and pebbles. My lungs expand, filling with suffocating liquid. 

I cannot breathe.

The obsidian of my vision questions me. How did you end up like this? What did you do to earn this? Where is mom? I miss my mother. I miss Libby, I hope Dina is okay. 

A hole emerges in the black. A white dot, growing, growing, ever so slowly. I reach for it, kicking out at the current that drags me down. It's warm on my cheeks, a relief from the chill of this pit that envelopes me. My lungs scream, not for air, but for impulsion, for the energy to save myself--to reach salvation. 

The dot expands above me, encompassing the water before me. Arms out to embrace, I relax into its bright rays as they circle me, pulling my useless body towards its chest.

I float through space like a speck of dust. It is lighter here, easier to traverse. My limbs float gracefully, lifting ever higher. 

The sky comes down on me. Glorious blue slices through the blizzard, its spots of impurity gradually exposing themselves. A funny shaped cloud, an awkward streak of light. I’m misted with fog, little droplets adhering to my feathers. The wind feels new on my face, slippery but mighty. 

My body is manipulated with less strength than I am used to. It feels sweet to fly. Just the thought sends sparks up my back and I cannot wait to take off. But I do not know this feeling. I have never craved flight, yet I seem to have achieved it. 

Something calls out behind me, a rope tugging on me to turn around. I ignore it.

When I look over, my arms are not my arms. I'm attached to wings of thick black feathers. Oh god, this is a terrible dream.

I hesitate and trip in the wind. I dive down, headed for an indistinct and unyielding ground that is fast approaching. Maybe then I will wake, just before the collision. This dream is a first, horrific and thrilling, and a small part of me hopes it is of many.

I’m unsure of myself. Unused to this mode of transport. I wobble on my approach to earth, struggling with my balance. I’ve never landed before, let alone on a branch, and my feet simply don't know what to do. I reach out blindly, attempting to enclose my new talons around the thick branch. 

One of my feet overshoots and I stumble, desperately flailing my wings to find balance as I slip from the branch. I fall. Only to startle when I find myself hanging upside down. The tree trunk swings like a metronome in my vision. One foot still grips the bark, the other dangles imprudently above me.

I still haven't woken up, and I’ve become intrigued about just how far I can fly before reality sets in. I let go of the branch and tumble towards the earth. In my effort to shift upright, I land chest first into the dirt, wings outspread, feet useless behind me. I taste dirt in my mouth, and snap my beak to try and wiggle it out. Surprisingly, it's more so the texture that bothers me than the taste.

Even after falling from the treetop, my adrenaline fails to wake me. I can feel panic rising ever so slightly. I do my best to ignore it.

Okay, let’s try this again. 

I pull myself up, shaking off the dirt and debris before stretching my wings out. Apparently taking off is a lot easier than landing. It was awkward, no doubt, but somehow with a bit of false confidence and lots of inane flapping, I lift off the ground and back into the sky. 

I recognize this place, it's my town’s central park. Usually I come here at night in a band of teenagers with illegal alcohol looking for a place to meander. I hadn’t realized it at first; the trees look surprisingly different during the day, and the flowers face a different direction. 

If this is central park, I know how to find home. I’m curious to see what my mind would come up with, where my parents would be or what Libby would be trying to steal from my closet. 

I change course. 

The longer I fly, the better I get, the stronger my beats are, and the surer I am in each turn. The motions come to me like second nature, like my mind knows there is no survival if I cannot fly.

I land on the kitchen window sill, peaking inside for activity. My mother sits at the dinner table, her head in her hands, steam-less coffee before her. I want to frown. I’ve rarely ever seen mom sad like this. At least, she’s never allowed me to see this side of her. I wonder what she has to be sad about. 

Dad enters the room, his face is red, cheeks moist. I press up against the glass as if it will help me understand. He puts a hand on mom’s shoulder, rubbing her back as he leans down to kiss her head. He looks worried, his brows tight, lines running across his forehead. Did something happen to Libby? The last time I saw my parents like this had been the day we lost my little brother, Leo. I miss Leo. He was only four.

I’m starting to dislike this dream.

I get too close, my beak taps the glass. It seems to be loud enough, for both my parents snap their heads toward the window. There is a drop of hope in their eyes that I cannot place. What had I missed? I’m beginning to hate this dream. I want to wake up and know none of this is real. That my parents don’t look like they’ve been grieving, and that they don’t stare at a bird in their window as if they had been expecting her, hoping she would appear.

Their hope quickly falls away to reveal their true dilemma. Mom doesn’t look away, she stares at me like she’s seen a ghost. I’m getting uncomfortable. Something is seriously wrong. The clock on the oven reads a quarter past four. They should be at work still, but I guess none of this makes much sense anyway.

I hear footsteps on the gravel path behind me. Two police officers are walking down the drive. 

This is starting to feel too real. I want to wake up. I need to wake up. I poke myself with my beak, I shake my body, I flap my wings like I'm trying to make them fall off. I suddenly feel very out of control. Something in my chest is on alert, screaming at me to run away.

“The hell’s wrong with it?” An officer.

“Fucking creepy,” The shorter one.

“Ya know, crows are supposed to be a sign of death,”

“Not the time or place to be morbid, Hackles”

‘Hackles’ waves away his partner, wandering up to the front door, his eyes still wearily glancing in my direction. I watch him back, my attention redirected from freaking out to inspecting this stranger on my front lawn. Why were the police here? Jesus, I really hoped nothing had happened to Libby.

But it's a dream! It's just a dream. Libby is okay, my parents are happy and dancing in the kitchen on a summer afternoon, and I'm in my bed taking a much needed nap.

I watch my dad let the officers inside. He sits next to mom at the table, listening to them speak. Nothing happens for a while. The officers lips flap about, a solemn, pitiful expression tainting their faces. My mothers face finds her hands once more, my father breathes heavily into the hand that cups his mouth. Something is seriously wrong.

Someone else is walking up the driveway, their footsteps slow and spaced. I find Libby behind me. Her lips pressed, worry lines encompassing her eyes. She looks like she's been crying. Everyone has been crying. 

She doesn’t spot me at first, too focused on peeking through the door window. Her hands press against the glass, oils seeping into the transparent barrier. I shift to get a better peek at her, hopping on bouncy feet, skittering along the sill. Libby stares at me, eyes growing wide. I want her to know it’s me. I want her to wipe the tears off her cheeks, go inside, and tell my parents I'm just outside waiting to get in. 

“Hello,” her voice is soft and raspy, she forgets our parents and the officers inside, carefully stepping towards me. The last thing I want is to scare her, I want her to approach me, see me.

She stops a foot before me, and for a while, does nothing but stare. Then, “Are you here for my sister?”

 “Olivia!” Mom stands in the doorway, watching her youngest talk to a bird. ”What are you doing? Get away from it.” She starts ushering Libby away, looking at me with uncertainty, as if she fears ill attack at any moment.

She pulls Libby away from me, back towards where the two officers are leaving. Dad puts his hand on Libby’s head, whispering something to her. She ignores him. The police offer me no attention, looking to my parents and Libby to offer a farewell. “We’ll notify you with any updates, for now it's a matter of time. Our best shot of finding her is within the 48 hour mark, so just give us a call if you remember anything else.” Hackles shakes hands with dad, and he thanks the officers before they wander back to their car.

Oh.

It’s me. I’m the problem.

I’m the reason Libby was crying; why mom looks so hollow; why dad won’t stop clenching his teeth. 

Suddenly, I'm in pain. My entire body shrivels in on itself, crushing my bones, my spine, my wings, my skull. This little body doesn’t know how to process grief. If I could produce tears, I think I would be crying. The only thing I can think of is to run. Flee the source of all this melancholy. 

The wind slaps me across the face with the realization that I will not be waking up anytime soon. Something has happened to me, and it is not the figment of my imagination. This new body of mine, inky and feathered, would not be letting me go. This is the state I am to navigate. The open sky offers me a solution. Whatever I have done, whatever I let happen has led me to the sky, and I do not intend to waste this gift.

My family, nor the police, know where I am. I do not know where I am. 

My family, nor the police, know if I am alive. I know I am not. 

I want the closure of knowing. I want my parents to be able to rest without wondering. I want Libby to understand why and where I have gone. I want to uncover what happened to me.

I can still feel that pull. It seems to be most prominent in the sky. Every time I take off, there's a silent echo in my ears to turn towards that pull and find what's on the other end. I ignore it.

The only place I can think of flying to is Dina’s house. Whatever happened, she would have been one of the last people I saw. But, I also just want to see her, to hear her airy voice, and watch her live in a world without me. I don’t know how I would have coped if Dina was in this body instead.

She only lives a few blocks away, in her parents' lovely pristine white home with a picket fence. The youngsters, Dina’s seven year old twin sisters, are playing rough on the trampoline. Bonnie looks wild, blond curls askew, tangled together like a bird's nest while she straddles Claire with fury. Claire, screaming bloody murder and baring her teeth at her twin, is generally unimpressed by her new prison. If I had lips I’d smile. The twins have always been, and will always be, the cute psycho gremlins of the Alden family. 

My gut takes on its own worries before I can instigate. If something has happened to me, what could happen to two tiny young girls? This thought only adds to my motivation. 

I find Dina in her room, curled over herself and looking nothing like my Dina. Her back is to the window, all I can see is the shaky rise and fall of her shoulders. I tap on the glass. Three little tics. She shifts. She rouses. She turns her head to look at me. 

I’m not sure what I’m expecting. But it wasn’t for her to simply stare. She barely moves. Her face is bloodshot, shiny with tears, and scrunched into a permanent grimace. 

Something has happened.

Slowly, she crawls across her bed, arms and legs scampering like a nervous child. Something in her eyes is uncertain, perhaps it's the crying and the grief, perhaps it's a curiosity scratching at her. Dina slides off her bed, wrapped tightly in blankets of wool and polyester, and gradually moves closer to investigate.

I need to do something remarkable. I need Dina to know who I am. It’s likely impossible and going to make Dina frightened, but I feel as if I have no other option.

I tap on the glass again. Tic. Tic. Tic. 

She flinches. Hesitates. Takes another step.

I shake my body, bob my head. Anything to make her think ‘what a strange bird’.

To my surprise, Dina opens the window and lowers her eyes to mine. We watch each other, neither sure of what the other is capable of understanding. 

I want to reach out and curl her ringlets. I want to touch my skin to hers. I want my body back. I want to know what happened.

Dina screechs in surprise as I dive into her window, taking flight into her room.

“No, no, no! Oh shit. Wait, bird!” Dina scrambles over herself to stand, watching wide-eyed with no plan, slowly processing that there is a bird flying about in her room. “Oh, please just--”

I land on a framed photo of Dina and I from two summers ago. It topples off the desk under my weight, and I watch with regret as the glass scatters out from underneath it. Dina pauses, looking between the guilty bird on her desk, and the shattered picture of her missing friend.

Dina whispers, “Why…” as she leans down to cautiously pick the photo up. The glass is gone, almost all of it disposed of between Dina’s knees. It's the two of us at camp, greedy smiles, cake smeared on our cheeks. This was the night we won the end of summer relay race. Nothing could stop us in that moment, we could be anything we set our minds to.

Now none of that was possible, and Dina was crying.

When I first noticed that she had shrunk in on herself and was now shaking with quiet sobs, I wasn’t sure what to do. Human me would have been able to hug and soothe, but now all I have is a beak and wings. So, doing the only thing I can think of, having lived 18 years as a human girl, I open my wings and rest them on top of Dina’s shins. The height is a bit of an issue. 

She peeks down at me, eyebrow raised. “You’re a strange little thing aren't you?” Her voice is thick and cracking. She sniffles and wipes snot from her nose.  I press my beak into the crack between her knees. This must provide comfort right? How do birds comfort?

“I think I'll name you Lyta,” She smiles. 

I feel my body react before I can tell it too. I bounce a couple times, shake my feathers, and bob my head. Thank you, Dina, you whipsmart motherfucker.

Dina recoils slightly, “Oh!” Then she relaxes and narrows her eyes at me. “You like the name?"

 I bob my head twice.

“Yes? Bob twice “

 I bob twice.

“Holy shit!” She leaps up and does a little spin. “Talking bird. There's a talking bird in my room!”

I’m not talking, exactly, but that works. I bob again and move towards the picture of us. I tap on me with my beak then gesture towards myself. I do it again. Dina frowns and lowers herself back down to my level.

 “That's my friend. Her name is Lyta too.”

I shake, gesturing back at myself.

“You. What about you?”

I point at picture-me and stomp my foot. 

“You…” She looks back at the picture, grazing a finger over my face. “You, Lyta?”

I bop up and down. Oh yes, please, Dina! I know I need something else to push her just a little further. I turn and fly for her bedside table, where Dina has a bowl of mismatched jewellery tangled in a pile. I pick up a necklace in my beak and hop across the bed back to her. 

She stares at the necklace in my mouth and frowns. “Lyta gave that to me.” Yes, yes, it was a necklace of mine that I gave to her. I offer the necklace to her, and very slowly, she takes it into her hands and simply looks at it. “Lyta gave this to me.” She repeats, this time, a tug tightening on her eyebrows. She looks to me, clearly searching for something. “Have you seen Lyta?”

I shake my head.

She hums, “Do you know where Lyta is?” I bob twice. “Yes?! You do?”

I bob twice and gesture to myself once more. 

Dina pauses, and I can see the information rolling around in her head, the pieces hopefully clicking together instead of bouncing around themselves. “This is probably crazy, but are you trying to tell me you are Lyta?”

I bob twice and can't help but pitter patter excitedly around Dina’s bed. 

“You…actually? You’re telling me you are Lyta, my best friend who no one can find.” She seems hesitant, like something doesn't sit right. Her mouth tenses, “If you are my Lyta, could you find one more thing she gave to me?”

Challenge accepted. There's plenty in this room that I’ve gifted Dina, but this needed to be something small, something no one else would assume was from me. I locate her bookshelf and the short story “Peaches”, that I bought for her last christmas. I scratch at it with my beak to get her attention.

Dina sits on her bed, staring at me and the book. “Lyta this is fucking nuts.”

I flap my wings in agreement. Tell me about it.

She suddenly springs up and comes to sit on the floor beneath me. I hop down to her level. “I’m going to pretend this could not possibly be my imagination and that you really are you.” She bites her lip and swallows hard. Her eyes are heavy. “Do you remember what happened? Where we were yesterday?”

Where were we? So Dina and I were together last. I can’t remember. I can't remember anything about last night, nor can I comprehend that something happened last night. It feels so far away, yet it was only yesterday, and the wound has barely begun to bleed.

I know I have one option. That drag. Something wants me to follow that pull and find what is at the end of it. I won't be able to avoid it forever, I know curiosity will inevitably overwhelm me into submission. 

I wonder what Dina knows, what she can remember, but I have no way to ask her. 

I don't answer Dina’s question, instead I find her coat on its hook and take it to her in my mouth. It's heavy and drags me down.

She takes it, “Are we going somewhere?”

I bob twice.

She frowns, “My parents won't let me leave the house right now,” She looks shy, speaks quietly, “Everyone is scared.”

I’m scared. More than anyone else in this town. I have every right to be. Frustrated, I fly to the window she let me in through and sit on the sill, staring at her. She looks at me sadly, her mouth and forehead tense. She's debating the disobedience, weighing the punishment in her head. I know that dilemma all too well.

Then, a heavy sigh and she stands. “Let me put my shoes on,”

Dina follows me out her window and into the dark and humid summer afternoon. She stumbles, really. Hands and feet flail over the sill like she’s some sort of wild scare crow. I think she makes it harder than it is. But I wouldn’t tell her so, even if I could. 

Trying to keep pace on the ground proves ineffective, so instead, throughout our adventure, I fly back and forth between Dina and the path ahead. I'm following that drag, allowing it to guide me in whatever direction it wants. Dina talks a lot, rattling off just about any thought that comes to mind. Mostly about me, and where I am, and how wild this is. The repetition drills misery into my head. 

My invisible path leads to a park at the edge of town. Dina is not impressed. 

“If I’d known you were asking me to walk a marathon I would have worn different shoes.” She scraps the bottom of her skate shoes on the ground. 

I perch up on the fence and look out over the park. It’s dark now, the sun has fallen behind the horizon, and the only source of light is from a single lamplight over a distant bench. It's hard to know what I’m looking for when there is nothing to see. 

Dina shivers, “Why are we here? We left the park early, I doubt there’s anything useful here.” 

So we were here. That’s a good start. I swoop down to the grass on the other side of the fence. Dina sighs, “Lyta, it’s dark,”

The noise comes out croaky and uncontrolled. In my attempt to usher Dina forward, I had tried to speak, which resulted in a concerning ‘caw’ instead of a shout. It scares me, hearing a new sound erupt from my throat and it not being tangible words. Dina sort of just stares at me, eyebrow raised. “Are you yelling at me?”

I've decided that I am yelling at her, if that is to make her move faster. I caw again, this time throwing in some enthusiasm.

“This is ridiculous,”

I caw at her.

“Lyta,”

Again.

“Is this how we’re gonna communicate from now on?”

I bob twice.

Her hands find their way to her hips, and she blows out a sigh. “Remind me why I love you, again?”

I flap my wings in excitement as she begins to scale the fence. Again, Dina seems to struggle with body coordination. Even though her ascent isn’t too terrible--she only stumbles a few times--her descent is very much the opposite. Dina trips and misses a rung on this side of the fence, her grip releases, and she tumbles down to the grass almost instantly. It's extremely comical, and I am grateful my laughter does not register for her.

I skip over to where Dina has admitted defeat and strewn herself out like a corpse. She's looking up at the sky, silent as a mouse. I stagger onto her stomach and stare down at her. She doesn’t look at me, her eyes close, and then tears begin to slip down the side of her face. 

I have no idea what to do. Especially as a bird with no arms for hugging or fingers to braid hair, comforting Dina seems impossible. She doesn’t make a noise, no chokes or sobs, she lies silently in her own tears. The only thing I can think to do is flatten myself against her stomach, laying out like I've fallen flat on the ground. 

She opens her eyes, they’re red and glossy, her eyelashes goopy. She has to maneuver her head up to see me and she lets out a weak sigh. Everything about her face is tense and drooping in defeat.

“I’m sorry.” She whispers, her lips connected by strings of saliva. “I'm sorry, Lyta,” I wait for what she is sorry for. What happened last night after we left the park. After we drank too much booted liquor, ran so hard we threw up, and laughed so much we gave ourselves headaches.

“I should never have let you stay.”

I lift myself up at this, and Dina takes this as an opportunity to right herself. She sits with her knees to her chest, back to the fence, hands restless. “I knew you were drunk but you wouldn’t leave no matter what I said, and I needed to go home…God, I shouldn’t have gone home.” She throws her head in her hands, “I was being so selfish, I was soo tired I could stay behind and make sure my best friend got home safe. And now…now, I can’t even bring myself to accept the fact that you are probably never coming home. I was so sure Ethan would get you home…” And then her chest stopped moving, and her hands fell from her face, and Dina looked at me exactly like she did when my brother died. “Ethan was the last one with you.”

Oh. Ethan.

My skull feels like someone is incessantly smashing a hammer over my head. Over and over and over, the rhythmic beat of searing pain and horrific images. My entire body caves in on itself, my mind trying to split itself apart to remember. Remember those last moments, remember what has happened. I’m pretty sure I’m not breathing, or thinking, or moving voluntarily. 

My heart sinks. I can see it. Hear it. Feel it. Taste it.

We kept drinking, Ethan and I, after all our other friends had wandered home for the night, Dina included. She was mad at me, and I was frustrated, both with her, and with myself. I didn’t know Ethan that well--a friend of a friend--but we both seemed to need this extra time to swim in alcohol and the cold, empty night. I was so intoxicated that I lost all sense of caution and fear. I thought he was a normal, easy going guy.

And then his hand was on my thigh, and my initial drunken response was to lightly brush him away. Still too dazed to think logically enough to run. And then he didn’t stop, and even as my body finally kicked on it’s survival instincts, I couldn’t move out from under him. 

He had a switch blade. It felt cold on my neck.

I remember seeing Libby running around the living room in Dad’s way oversized t-shirt. I remember Dina smirking at me from across the classroom. I remember mom and dad’s tight embrace at graduation. I remember Rocco, the little spaniel we had when I was three. In those moments, I saw, heard, felt, all the love I was going to miss. I searched for anything but the boy above me.

There was a point in the middle, where my heart abruptly jumped, pumping adrenaline into my veins in a final effort for freedom. My hand went for his face, open palm meeting chin and cheek. He grunted and went to push my face away too. But we were drunk, and he stumbled, the knife falling away. I remember thinking nothing but get out, get out, get out, get out. The same two words repeated like a chant in head.

I used all my body weight to throw him off me. My hormones dragged me across the grass, away from him and his hands. But then he’s back up, and he’s grabbing my ankle, and my strength is nothing compared to his. Suddenly, my entire body screams in pain. There's something lodged in my back and I can’t move. My mouth opens to scream; I can't hear if any noise comes out.

He's back on top of me. The pain erupts like a firework, and something pulls on my spine. I'm flipped on my back, my bleeding, searing, open wound grinds into the dirt. The knife drives into my stomach. I can’t move anymore. I can't bring myself to try. My bones are like jello, my muscles torn and useless. The knife keeps coming, again and again and again. 

I’m light as a feather. Floating over a warm river. There is no pain anymore. Just the tingle of Death as he caresses what is left of me.

I don’t see the boy above me. Just the warming light surrounding me, the gentle eyes of Libby, and the loving smile of my dear Dina.

She looks at me now with so much resolve and pain. There’s grief there, accompanied by regret and shame. It’s difficult for her to not look away. To take in the wisps of what remains of Lyta Peterson. 

I know Dina better than anyone, I know that this version of her is scattered. Shards of who I recognize as my oldest friend spill out before me. She blames herself, and I have no way to offer her comfort. I have no words to tell her that I forgive her. That I could never blame her. That above all, I know it is my doing. It was my choice to stay in the park. It was my choice to keep drinking. Every choice was my decision. And this is where it has taken me. 

I know where he left me now. I understand where that pull is taking me. 

I take the hem of Dina’s jeans in my beak and tug. I tug until she lets up and finally climbs to her feet. I waste no time directing her towards my invisible string. We wander deep into the park, towards the treeline, where the tiny remnants of lamp light officially die off and the pitch black consumes. 

The darkness crawls towards me. It's greasy and thick; a black cloud of suffocating reality. The truth behind the facade of light and day scratches at my feathers with long curling talons. It plucks them one by one. Twisting each stem from my skin like some curious chimp, watching with glee as every feather causes a violent screech of agony. 

My skin is cold and bare. Uneven rocks dig into my spine, twigs scratch my skin, spiders tickle along my neck. I am void of comfort and love. There is an empty void of suffering and surrender that gladly encompasses my lifeless body. 

Dina sobs when we stumble upon what has become of me. There is no pause between when she registers my socked foot, and when the ear piercing screams begin. I watch helplessly, motionless as Dina scrambles to cup my blue face between her hands. She’s screaming and crying and hollering for help and I can’t look away from the body, the life that used to belong to me. 

Dina mutters incoherently into my empty face, petting my tangled, leaf-filled hair. She doesn’t move, I don’t move. We remain frozen in our grief. I cannot tear my eyes away from all I have ever been and all I could have become. Dina cannot tear herself away from her childhood friend, as if locked in time. This is the oldest she will ever know me to be. All my hopes and dreams locked in the box that was my livelihood.

I don’t know how long we wait over my body. Minutes, hours, days, it’s all the same when there’s no moving forward. Beckoned by her continuous screaming, a man finds Dina curled over me just before the sunrise. 

It’s mostly a blur after that. I hide myself on a tree branch and watch from above as the police arrive, as my parents are brought to identify the body, and as Dina’s parents, too, come to comfort their traumatized daughter. 

My mother screams until her lungs cannot take it anymore. My father harbours silent tears, keeping a firm hand on moms back, but I can see how he struggles to breathe, how he looks at me like I’m his little girl. 

The police question Dina. They question her parents. They question my parents again. And then there’s a body bag and a stretcher. And I cannot prevent myself from leaving this branch and flying down towards my family. 

My wings feel lighter, softer as they cut through the wind. When I land, the grass is cotton candy plush, and I can’t help but feel a buzz in my head. I watch from the ground as the stretcher is wheeled to an ambulance. Mom and dad are behind me, watching all the same. Dina stands between her parents, arms tangled for warmth and love. We look to each other, then back to the ambulance. 

It’s only when they’ve driven me away, that the silence and grief completely sets upon those left in the park. The air is heavy, I know it should be. But still, my nerves feel loose and weak, I’m light and floating. 

I know what is coming. I know what this feeling is. 

I’ve felt it before.

I turn to my parents. My mother stares out on the empty horizon where the ambulance has disappeared. My father stares at me, the bird. He watches me with something I cannot place. I see the sadness in those glossy eyes, but there is something different hiding behind his stoic face. 

This will do just fine.

Looking into my fathers eyes, watching my mother for the last time—this is the comfort I need to quietly leave this place. Knowing the mystery will not haunt them eternally, knowing someday they will see the justice I never got too, brings warmth to my ice cold body. 

I let the haze overwhelm me. I embrace the crashing waves that flow towards me. 

I close my eyes and step towards the welcoming glow.

THE END

By Maeve Evans