Aviary--Nick Castellano

The bird in the wall is dying. I can hear it. Brief spurts of frustrated noise lead me to believe it is pinned somewhere inside the panel.

I'm on my second drink, venturing into the depths of my mind to draw blood on a blank white page. This will be my second novel, if I ever start typing: if this bird ever stops dying. It only cries when I move, as if it challenges me to relieve its song. This bird has become a mirror as we sing in turn. My reflection is staring back but accompanied with sounds of the inhumane. The clicking of keys and the squawk of a bird isn’t so different when they mean the same. We are both in search of resolve to our story. We are both living things, one dying on the inside, one dying on the out. Today I feel like a captor and yet truthfully I am the hostage, blinded from this being by a mirrored wall. I ponder its appearance: black with jagged feathers, a long thin beak, and forlorn eyes calling to me. 

My imagination is fueling. I am headed down a path, but not the one that I need to go. I can't stop thinking about this bird. I can't stop looking into this mirror.

My wife sleeps in our bed no more than ten feet away. She pretends to sleep but really she's a depressed insomniac. I wonder if she hears the bird too. I evoke the ice in my drink with soft rotation of the glass. There is no response. The bird knows what I am thinking. If only I could stop thinking and start typing.

***

I'm starting to forget what my husband looks like. I lay here at night, eyes shut, fooling myself into believing that I will fall asleep. I'm depressed, but there’s a pill for that. I'm an insomniac, but only when I can't sleep. Today has left my mind to wander into the night, while my body is caged in this unforgiving room. I hate this room. All that is left for me here is our bed that I use to pray for sleep. I wonder if he knows.

Tonight there is a bird trapped inside our wall crying to be let free. It feels so symbolic. It feels like me, on the cusp of something painful and yearning to know you’ll be set free. I'm tragically optimistic. I believe this bird is beckoning me forth to see. It only makes noise when I move but how can it hear my subtle ruffling of the covers from over ten feet away?

There it goes again, scraping at the wall and calling out to me. I want to go over, but I'm scared. I know I am safe in our bed, but it's my imagination that takes flight and leaves fear. There's something so harmless and yet intimidating about an invisible bird. I've tried to imagine it with magenta feathers and a bright orange beak: something pleasant, something optimistic.

I'm going to do it. I'm going to get up and go over to this bird that is calling me. I'm going to do it, eventually.

***

I'm still staring at a blank white page. The bird has been quiet, only pestering as my fingers urge to tap the keys. Maybe another drink will do the trick. This will be my fifth. My wife thinks I'm an alcoholic, but I think I’m just hopeless. We haven't been getting along recently. She's lost in a past moment and I'm too present to ask why. I'm a terrible husband; I know it, she knows it, and yet no ones says a word about it.

It's been a week since the car accident. It's been a week since we've talked about it. Now it's too long gone to resurrect. It happened so fast. I forget what we were fighting about. Does it matter? I should go over and hug her, but I know I won't. My body urges me not to. I wouldn't want to wake her and spoil the illusion. She's a good pretender. She hides things; I bottle them up. We’re a match made in heaven.

She's moving. She's moving more than usual. I hear the bed creaking and it gives me nostalgia. We were lovers once.

      I feel her staring at me but I hope I'm wrong. She stares at a blank man as I stare at a blank page. God, if only I could just write something.

There it is again, silence. I believe she has gotten out of bed and just standing there, staring at me. I want to turn around but I'm too much of a coward. Even a sixth drink wouldn't give me the courage to face our promise.

The bird’s song has become a higher pitch. She’s moving again. I hear her toes as she walks on her tips. She must be staring at me. I wish I wasn't a coward. I wish I would turn around and tell her that she could go back to bed, that everything would be all right, but I would be lying. Everything isn't all right and I’m not sure it ever will.

Last week I killed a man. I had six drinks. Six must be the number. We were on our way back from her sister's Sunday dinner. We were fighting. I raised a hand. She looked at me as I imagine she is looking at me right now; and then, blackout. That's all I remember, but a man is dead. I killed a man and I still don't have anything to write about. I'll have another drink. Six must be the number.

***

I got out of bed. Now I’m staring at the wall. I'm staring at my past life. The bird is quiet now. 

It's been a week since the accident. We were fighting. I should've kept my mouth shut. Now, all I have is a bird trapped in my wall, summoning me. I've gotten out of bed. There's no turning back. I must keep going. I am an optimist and this is for a reason. I walk closer and sit in my husband’s chair. It's the first time I've sat here since the accident. I tap a key and wake the machine. He said he was hard at work on his second novel and here I am staring at a blank white screen. I typed the letter “I”. I don't know why. My reflection lay on the mirror in front of me. The bird speaks to me through this barrier holding us apart. Each key I press elicits a response. I feel inspired. I continue writing.

He would have wanted me to write. Words may be my only escape. My husband always thought I should be a writer. He said I had a way with words. He said I was too silent.

The bird in the wall is dead. I can hear it. All that’s left is my silent reflection that lay ahead. I’m scared.

I knew my husband couldn't relieve me. I knew my husband couldn't love me. He didn't know how. He was a writer. He had his words. It was all he was. It was all he could leave me, a blank white page.

 

Bio Note

Nick Castellano is a recent graduate of Suffolk University with a Bachelor's Degree in Theater Arts. He has produced and staged two of his plays in a black box theater and has performed in numerous productions and independent films. You can find more information about him at Nickycast.net