"take me again", she said, thinking of him, "to the pond with the swans and the swimming"
He never meant to hurt her.
When he first saw her, all he thought of was how beautiful she was, something special and rare that people like him never normally got to see in their lives, and when he first stroked her feathers it was only because they looked so soft. It wasn't stealing, not at first, he was only trying to keep them both safe until he could figure out what he was supposed to do.
His name is Derrick and he has a collection of fantasy novels under his narrow bed in the dingy house he inherited from his father, who had been something of a sentimental drunk.
"You're not from around here, are you?" He had said, palms sweaty on the steering wheel.
"No," she said, with a faint accent he couldn't place on one side of the ocean or the other, and looked at him with an expression he couldn't read then, though now he supposes it was contempt.
"What's your name?"
"I don't know, make something up." Even then, she was impatient with him. She wouldn't speak to him again for days, no matter what he asked, and he set her up in his bedroom and was glad his ex-girlfriend had left behind some of her stuff when she moved out. Hair products, jeans that didn't fit without a belt, bobby pins - things he'd held in his hands when she was gone and cried over in the silent, tearless way of young men. At least someone was using them again.
He wrapped up her feathers and hid them in the ceiling, where his father had kept his rifles and Playboys. For safekeeping.
"I'm going to call you Bell," he decided, and was encouraged by her slight shrug that showed the curve of her shoulder under his oversized shirt. He took her shopping and bought her clothes that fit, lacy bras, clinging underwear, and blushed under the eyes of sales ladies.
"I want my old clothes back," she said, and he pretended he didn't hear her.
It was that night he summoned enough courage to kiss her, and only later would he wonder if she gave in because she wanted to or because she didn't think it was a choice, and he was ashamed of himself. But this was only after she was gone; then, she was there, with her sharp fingers and endless reserve, leaving him feeling even farther away when he curled up naked beside her. Like nothing he did could ever touch her.
He'd meant to call her Belle, for being beautiful, but she resisted the e, cut it into a metal throat. She wouldn't even take his simplest gift. He'd only wanted her to stay with him, to be his and his alone, the reassuring palm prints on the inside of his frosty morning windows.
Derrick asked her often where she was from, but she never told him, maybe because she didn't know herself. She cleaned his house and cooked his meals for him, padding barefoot in and around his house and making him glad he lived outside of town so no one would see her, she slept beside him at night, and she never said no, or yes, and he told himself he was lucky, that she was happy with him. She never looked unhappy.
Spring came, and then summer, and one morning he woke up alone and knew she wasn't there. He looked anyway, until he glanced outside and saw his truck was gone, too. She left behind almost everything he'd given her, and put the ceiling panel back in place - she was always neat.
He covered the muddy handprint she left on the outside of his bedroom window with plastic wrap so the rain and wind wouldn't damage it, and wondered what she was trying to tell him, if she was trying to tell him anything at all. What he was supposed to do now.
Maybe this was a test, but there was only one person he could ask, and as his confusion faded into anger he decided he was going to get answers this time. He sold his father's rifles and bought a car on an old man's lawn, sat behind the wheel, and thought about where a bird would go once it got out of its cage.
He goes south.
When he first saw her, all he thought of was how beautiful she was, something special and rare that people like him never normally got to see in their lives, and when he first stroked her feathers it was only because they looked so soft. It wasn't stealing, not at first, he was only trying to keep them both safe until he could figure out what he was supposed to do.
His name is Derrick and he has a collection of fantasy novels under his narrow bed in the dingy house he inherited from his father, who had been something of a sentimental drunk.
"You're not from around here, are you?" He had said, palms sweaty on the steering wheel.
"No," she said, with a faint accent he couldn't place on one side of the ocean or the other, and looked at him with an expression he couldn't read then, though now he supposes it was contempt.
"What's your name?"
"I don't know, make something up." Even then, she was impatient with him. She wouldn't speak to him again for days, no matter what he asked, and he set her up in his bedroom and was glad his ex-girlfriend had left behind some of her stuff when she moved out. Hair products, jeans that didn't fit without a belt, bobby pins - things he'd held in his hands when she was gone and cried over in the silent, tearless way of young men. At least someone was using them again.
He wrapped up her feathers and hid them in the ceiling, where his father had kept his rifles and Playboys. For safekeeping.
"I'm going to call you Bell," he decided, and was encouraged by her slight shrug that showed the curve of her shoulder under his oversized shirt. He took her shopping and bought her clothes that fit, lacy bras, clinging underwear, and blushed under the eyes of sales ladies.
"I want my old clothes back," she said, and he pretended he didn't hear her.
It was that night he summoned enough courage to kiss her, and only later would he wonder if she gave in because she wanted to or because she didn't think it was a choice, and he was ashamed of himself. But this was only after she was gone; then, she was there, with her sharp fingers and endless reserve, leaving him feeling even farther away when he curled up naked beside her. Like nothing he did could ever touch her.
He'd meant to call her Belle, for being beautiful, but she resisted the e, cut it into a metal throat. She wouldn't even take his simplest gift. He'd only wanted her to stay with him, to be his and his alone, the reassuring palm prints on the inside of his frosty morning windows.
Derrick asked her often where she was from, but she never told him, maybe because she didn't know herself. She cleaned his house and cooked his meals for him, padding barefoot in and around his house and making him glad he lived outside of town so no one would see her, she slept beside him at night, and she never said no, or yes, and he told himself he was lucky, that she was happy with him. She never looked unhappy.
Spring came, and then summer, and one morning he woke up alone and knew she wasn't there. He looked anyway, until he glanced outside and saw his truck was gone, too. She left behind almost everything he'd given her, and put the ceiling panel back in place - she was always neat.
He covered the muddy handprint she left on the outside of his bedroom window with plastic wrap so the rain and wind wouldn't damage it, and wondered what she was trying to tell him, if she was trying to tell him anything at all. What he was supposed to do now.
Maybe this was a test, but there was only one person he could ask, and as his confusion faded into anger he decided he was going to get answers this time. He sold his father's rifles and bought a car on an old man's lawn, sat behind the wheel, and thought about where a bird would go once it got out of its cage.
He goes south.