Bird on a String

Fight. Flight. Freeze. Fawn.

Fight.

Against your better judgment, you decide to go on a midnight walk to mitigate your insomnia. You change into bright bottoms and you calculate the milligrams it would take. You flush the pills and don a white sweatshirt that tells you, “Perhaps you were made for such a time as this.” The sweatshirt tells you this in comic sans, so you know it’s an extra special message from the universe. On your walk, you elect to use only one earbud to maintain awareness. You elect to turn your flashlight on in case the bright clothes aren’t bright enough. Even in spontaneity (or because of it) you’re cautious.

You walk on the commercial side of the road where the sidewalk glows from the neon lights and street lamps. You’ve chosen a good night to square up with your demons. Spring rain has cleared the air, the stars are out, and the wind has howled itself to sleep. You know the smell of freshly wet soil? The scent that calls your attention to the earth and pools the taste of beets on the back of your tongue? The night is thick with it. For the first time today, you fill your lungs completely.

Flight.

Every other step, your feet feel the gentle interruption of soft twigs. A glance down turns your safe sidewalk into a shallow bed of dead and dying worms. Your flesh crawls until it seizes you, stands you still mid-stride. The sudden stop sends your shoestrings flying, and for a whole ten seconds, you believe worms have snuck into your sneakers. You are primed for a meltdown, truly, but doing so in a nightcrawler cemetery would surely keep you awake, and did you not leave the house in search of rest?

Freeze.

You sprint to escape your sudden graveyard and halt at the intersection. You punch the button, wait for the signal, look both ways, and enter the crosswalk. When the white sedan turns left and accelerates, time stops. Getting caught in headlights is worse than you think. The worms replace the soles of your feet. You cannot move. The pill bottle’s imprint ghosts itself into your palm. You cannot calculate how many steps backwards or forwards would spare you. When the tires skip to a stop, you’re close enough to kick the hood, close enough to see the driver finally see you, too.

Fawn.

Sleep doesn’t find you later, but a memory does: a black bird tire-flattened into asphalt. A frayed wing. A thin white string tethered twice around the right foot. A beak left ajar, frozen mid-song. You recall an irrational anger. You wanted to find the driver and demand answers. Did they notice that the bird was off? Did they see the tether preventing its flight? Did they bother to brake, or did they step on the gas? And what do they make of mercy?