Prologue.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The cold edge of the butcher knife slaughters the screeching flesh. Blood drips. Splattering on the wooden board. The faint, but foul stench of rot lingers. A large splotch of red appears on the pristine white apron, sullying it from the cleanliness originally and meticulously kept.
A large, pale and veiny hand hovers over the stain, seemingly repulsed. Tracing the undefined outline slowly, almost fascinated on how its imperfected edges were formed.
Then a sudden slice of a knife resonated in the kitchen, too sharp, too clean, too final. Following it like an echo, other sounds of the heavy and strangely provoked landing and impact of the blade persisted in the room.
Stillness.
All that remains is a distorted mass of flesh, still twitching in the strained silence of a blade scraping against the board.
To Pluck a Blood-Soaked Feather.
The sun shines brightly upon the fast field of tall weeds who swayed peacefully with the light breeze, displaying a seemingly perfect landscape.
Thud.
A fleeting shadow falls through the azure sky, colliding with the formless and bizarre clouds.
A flurry of white rushed through the field, the svelte bodies of the herbs lightly grazing the white-like delicate skin, trampling on the small beasts crawling on the ground, scurrying riotously as to not be stepped on and despite their efforts, are rendered into a lump of flattened meat.
Screech, squelch, squash.
The sound of distant, but imminent footsteps approaches towards the fallen shadow. A white skirt billows in the calm winds.
The before black and nebulous silhouette mutates into a spasmodic body. It was covered in feathers. An endless land of white snow with miniscule drops of red, each feather was delineated with fringed edges, its stiff center was colored into a slightly greyish tone, exposing the origins of the pure white branches.
It lay, slightly trembling, each tremor of its plumes fluttered with vivid fragility, its beak, opening and closing, liberating soft and inaudible pleas.
The now nigh flurry of white, stands quietly, observing, watching and disregarding the conspicuous agony, coursing in the spontaneous spasms of the bird.
A caressing sigh escaped, a twinge of pity in the breath.
Abruptly, a dainty hand reached out, well-defined knuckles and frighteningly pale skin, smothered dark dirt distinctly contrasted the light color, bestowing an uncomfortable image.
Out of the corner of its reddened eye, it notices the ominous hand of its aggressor, the well-trimmed nails distorting and curling into something unnatural, cuspidate, reaching hunger that didn’t feel human.
It shut its eyes tight, as if darkness could shield it from the pain. As if not seeing meant not feeling.
One, two, three...
An oddly lukewarm, rugged-like touch covers the shivering body of the tortured creature. It could’ve felt each thread, handsewn with motherly affection, although a few were askew, hanging loosely from the sides, it gave a strange sense of familiarity and humanity.
This warmth, once a comfort, now feels foreign. The bird, once seeking solace, drifts toward an eternal rest, its pulse fading, its once-pleading breath now silent.
“Mama!” A sudden shout echoed at the threshold of the entrance of the small, dimly lit house, the slightly gravelly voice exuded a suppressed layer of childish excitement and enthusiasm.
A rambunctious and eager string of messy footsteps against the hard polished wood floor reverberated rather loudly in the hall.
“What has gotten you this excited?” A loving and curious voice asked, it carried a subtle tiredness desperately masked by the overly affectionate tone.
“Look at what I caught!” The enthusiastic one responded with two sonorous thumps on the wooden kitchen table, creaking slightly by the sudden impact.
A white blood-stained cloth decorated with small black fingerprints and a fist-sized rock with a bumpy surface and a splotch of red appeared on the surface. Under the white veil, a prominent lump could be seen under it with undistinguished features.
Her mother didn’t answer at first. She stared at the table, lips slightly parted, as if the blood had drained from more than just the bird.
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A loud retch immediately followed. The putrid odor of blood and decay persisted in the once homely air. Welling tears appeared in the doe-like eyes of the mother, reflecting utter disgust concealed towards who, by dint of resisting the nauseating and vomit-inducing smell.
“What in Samü’s name have you brought here!?” She shrieked violently, piercing through the thin tone of motherly affection.
“It is a bird?” the white-skirted girl replies, na?ve, as if it should be obvious.
“How many times have I told you, to not go hunting!? You’re a girl for lord’s fucking sake? What kind of man would want such a disgraceful lady like you?!” The mother thundered, her eyes widened in an uncanny and preposterous way, her anger contorted face thus far pale from the devastating nausea, her voice slightly trembling diminishing her oppression.
The girl freezes, her smile wilting under the weight of the accusation.
“Why should I be not allowed to hunt? She asked, her voice sharpening. “Why is my person reduced to an object of desire for men!?”
“You go on about supporting me and my decisions but oppose me once I actually express them! What kind contradictory logic is that?”
“I support you,” her mother snapped. “But only if you follow a proper path, a quiet, peaceful life. Not… this. Keep acting like this and the only place you’ll end up is in the gutter, used, broken and unwanted.”
“Lord, do you see me only as something to please men?”
She shakily paused, took a deep breath and continued.
“I am your daughter! Daughter! Not an exchangeable item to trade for marriage?!”
“I have enough of you and your ungrateful and childish complaints? You either learn to be a proper lady or I'll go ahead and sell your body for the drunken men on the streets.”
“...”
The once excited girl stiffened, frozen in the moment.
Her upper lip trembled ever so slightly, as the gaze towards her mother morphs into something fragile, vulnerable, no longer fierce, solely a wounded bird in the mercy of the hands of its hunter.
The young girl muttered, her voice brittle,
“Sometimes I question if you actually see me as someone.”
“Are you even a mother...?”
Stillness. Discomfort instills in the quiet room.
The mother’s face flickers with something. But before it can fully take form, the door slams shut, echoing in the silence that follows.
Are you even a mother?
...
The mother in question stood there as she silently observed the pooling blood of the lifeless body spill onto the tiles.
The stone tiles of the floor, cold and smooth, deprived of ripples. Like her life, a smooth-sailing ride. Following simple instructions, learn proper manners, find a man and marry him. All uncomplicated and easy to achieve.
She already had her boat prepared. But she just did not want to face the endless ocean of inner turmoil and actual desires. She feared the uncertainties that were found on a deeper level and only wanted to skim the surface, finding comfort in the simpleness. Unwilling to find more, to bask in the warmth of unawareness.
Buzz.
A low-pitched buzz. It wished to sing, unfortunately it was not able to form words. Only a gurgling string of incomprehensibilities that pervaded and clouded the mind. Numbness submerging from it.
If she really went on the perilous journey on the water, would she have found something better. A life truly worth living?
A small self-deprecating chuckle resounded in the kitchen.
And she left the kitchen with a creak of a door.
In the inconspicuous corner, hidden by the oppressing shadows of conflict, a small figure sat on a wooden chair, legs swinging back and forth in time with the rhythm of its thoughts.
It got up from its chair and slowly approached the table.
A small, scarred hand reached out towards the undistinguished lump.
It delicately grabbed one of the corners of the cloth and lifted it, peering inside, curious of what mysteries laid under.
A scarred hand reaches out, fingers trembling as they lift the cloth, revealing the bird, a lifeless, bloody mass of white and red. It’s both tragic and oddly beautiful, like the soft glow of a winter night tainted with something darker.
The miniscule hand caressed the lifeless body of the creature, laced with rue and pity.
Omitting the filth it carried, with slight hesitation, it plucked gently one of the plumes fearing too much aggressiveness would make the already dead animal feel more pain.
...
What is the righteous path? A life of quiet submission, ignoring the stirrings of desire and the need for something more? A life of obedience to a cruel system that demands conformity? Why must she submit? Why must she be small, invisible, just an object for exchange?
...
Toc, toc, toc.
Click.
The door abruptly opened.
“Oan?” The young girl questioned, confused by the unexpected appearance of her brother.
“I have a gift for you.” A hushed, soft voice responded, the owner timidly standing at the threshold, hands behind his back in attempt to hide his gift, uncertain whether to enter or not.
A tender smile bloomed on the face of the defiant lady, her index curling slightly beckoning the child to come closer.
Small but rushed steps approached rapidly, eager to present the gift.
“So... What is my long-awaited present?”
A bright radiant grin embellished the boy’s face as he revealed the gift.
A tiny hand emerged in her sight; it clutched nervously on the greyish stem. It fringes were a delicate white half-submerged in a profound red.
It was a blood-soaked feather.
The young lady’s lips twitched into a soft smile, but her eyes trembled, distant, like she’d just been handed something both precious and damning.
She gently unclenched her little brother’s hand, prying the tense fingers that held dearly onto the stem, and plucked the feather.
The light feather, seemingly holding no weight, was the heaviest thing she ever carried. Its blood though dry, seemed to drip endlessly, like a running faucet that you just can’t seem to fix. The drip, repeats. Like a reminder.
But a reminder of what? How she carelessly took the life of an innocent animal and didn’t achieve anything out of it and even got reprimanded.
She turned the feather slowly in her hand. It was dry. But still, she swore it dripped.
Was she being mocked?
For her recklessness? For-
“Sister, this feather is really pretty. Can you find other ones like it?” A small voice brutally interrupted her thought, leaving her in daze for a few seconds.
She immediately responded after,
“Yes, of course, Sister will give you the prettiest feathers she can find.”
“Ok.”
And with that he left.
Drip.
Her stomach twisted.
It still drizzled and dribbled.
She admits, the bird didn’t deserve it, but wouldn’t death be better than endless struggle and longing for survival? Wasn't she doing the bird a favor?
Why did she suffer for her good actions? Was the feather her reward or mockery for her unjustified actions?
The white feather, drenched in dried blood, grew heavier in her palm.
And still, the blood dripped.
