She fell down,
and it was he who caught her.

She was a fractured little thing when he found her.
She was a helpless baby bird, fallen from the nest and too young to fly back alone.
He smiled at her, gently helped her off the ground and nursed her back to health.
He couldn't bear to return her to the nest though; she was his now, he had found her, he had saved her. Right? Besides, he told himself, they wouldn't accept her back now, now that she smelt of/dreamt of/obsessed over him.

She chirped at him, quietly revealed fragments of information. Her thoughts, her feelings, her desires, her questions.
She was a curious little thing, always pecking around for bits of information, about him, about life, about everything and about nothing. She pecked at little bits of everything that she found, flitting around, never quite settling on one thing in particular. Her tiny wings were always buzzing, and he was content to let her flitter; as long as she didn't leave the cage he'd set up for her.

Yes, he'd created a perfect little world for her, complete with a knee for her to perch on and a mirror for her preen in.
Oh, how she loved the world she saw in that mirror. She would stare at her reflection, chirping away about something or other, and gradually gradually gradually she began to love the world in the mirror more than the world he had created for her, in the white wire cage with the small white wire door that he never opened.

He noticed this shift in her focus, and it brought an ugly red tinge to his face.
She stopped chirping to him as she used to, stopped flitting from one bit of information to the next, and she stopped smelling of/dreaming of/ obsessing over him.
When she did chirp away to him now, on the rare occasion, he was startled to hear her ask quiet questions about the nest. Why had she fallen out of it? Why had he found her? Why had he not put her back?
And then the question that frightened him the most; why wouldn't he open the door for her now, so she could fly home to the nest?

Home home home. What was wrong with this home, this world that he had created for her?
Why did she long for the world in the mirror, the world outside the white wire door?
Why didn't she long for him any more?

She was his, he had found her, he had saved her. Right? Of course it was right. And they wouldn't accept her back, especially not now, after so much time had passed. Surely not.
But she did not recognise this fact, nor acknowledge all he had done for her.
She simply chirped, sadly sadly sadly, away to her mirror self and never ever ever to him.

The ugly red tinge rose higher and higher up along his face until it was no longer a tinge but a full blown colour, a vibrant shade that did not frighten her into acknowledging him or his efforts, but only made her retreat further into the mirror and wish even more to escape through the white wire door.
He simply did not know what to do, did not know what to do at all.
And so he opened the white wire door, and he reached inside the cage, deep into the world that he had created for her.
He plucked her out and her wings buzzed frantically against his palms, but he did not let her go.
He was not quite ready to let her go.

He had planned on clipping her wings, so that she could not escape from the white wire cage even if he did open the door.
But she was his, and she was helpless in his grasp, and when it all came down to it, in the end, he just couldn't do it.

He was a fractured immense thing when he left her.
She was a desperate cramped up bird, wanting to spread her wings and fly around the whole big wide world outside the white wire cage.
He smiled at her, gently held her off the ground, and willed her to be healthy enough.
She couldn't bear to return to the nest though; she had been his, he had found her, he had saved her. This she realised, finally. Besides, she told herself, they wouldn't accept her back now, now that she smelt of/dreamt of/obsessed over him once again.

She flew away,
and it was he who let her go.


a.n. i don't quite know how i feel about this piece, but i don't hate it, so i thought that i'd post it. perhaps you won't hate it either. let me know?
it's very inspired by D.H Lawrence, who i just finished studying in english lit; in particular, his repetitive style of writing, and his frequent references to the character of Banford being like a 'bird' in The Fox.