The Barn

I sit in the rafters in the barn of the Old Farm contemplating my life. The November wind picks up and whispers between my feathers as it twists in through the cracks of the rotted planks, making the tiniest whistling sounds as I tuck my head further under my wing. Have I been this way for days? For years? For lifetimes even? I wasn’t always like this. Or at least I do not think that I have been. I very often find myself perched in this way, as a bird commonly does, and then, for a split second, I feel my legs buckle and my vision blur, as if I were scared. I look down at the hay-strewn dirt floor of the silent, crumbling building and wonder what it is to fall. Then in an instant, as quickly as the fear comes, it is gone. A faint whiff of a naive memory is all that remains. The mindfulness of a barn owl has never been one written about by scholars, but I am certain that I remember things. Perhaps they are not things from my life, but they belonged to someone. Every morning, as the lavender speckles begin to melt apart from the yellowing sky, as twilight turns into daybreak, I allow myself to succumb to sleep and relive the same dream, skipping over itself like scratched vinyl.

I awake in the same old barn, heaviness weighing down my body as if I were tied to the center of the earth with invisible, immovable tethers. The roof of the barn is not the same as I have been used to seeing it. Normally, the slats are half gone, rotted away or broken, showing the twinkling halos of stars bespeckling the drape of darkness outside, but now the ceiling is nothing but a solid sheet of wood and cobwebs. I blink away dusty tears as my eyes attempt to adjust to the darkness of the room in which I lie. I am able to make out silhouettes of large, sharp objects, probably old farm equipment, strewn around the edges of the barn, and there are things hanging on the walls. Possibly horse bridles, possibly enormous carving knives. The idea of horses soothes me for a moment, as I imagine their eager whinnies when I bring them a carrot or pet their soft muzzles. But only for a moment. Craning my neck to view my surroundings proves difficult, so I allow my head to fall back onto the dirt floor.

After a few minutes, or hours, it is impossible to tell, I can feel my nerves beginning to stir. I become aware of my body, of my flesh and my limbs. I do not feel like an owl. My body is long, and flat. My mouth feels soft, although incredibly dry and cracked. I have appendages at the end of my extremities that I’m able to move independently, a feat that seems much more difficult right now than it usually ought to be. As I become more able, I move my hands over my body, becoming wiser of some sore places, particularly my ribs and my shoulders. Also the insides of my thighs. Tatters of fabric slip through my fingers as I examine the dress clinging to me, covered in various degrees of wetness, making little pockets of mud in the folds.

I try, but I can’t remember why I am here. The only memory I have isn’t even a memory at all, but a feeling. Just an unflinching conception of terror and panic, the sounds of my own screams echoing off the walls in my head, buzzing against my skull and making my teeth chatter. I faintly recall the taste of strawberry ice cream in the heat of the afternoon, perhaps a kind yet eerily unsettling face, the promise of a reward if I didn’t scream, then the smell of nail polish remover when I did. The last image that entered my head was of my mother, and how angry she would be when I might not return home.

I wish I could sit up, I wish I could scream some more, I wish I could run out of the red barn door into the night and escape whatever it was that was making me so terrified, but I can’t. My body is lost in a fog that compresses me further with every short breath, every small movement I attempt to make. Gravity is heavier in this barn than any other plane in existence. My tiny body weighs thousands of pounds here.

I concede to the weight of my eyelids just when the big red door of the barn flies open, crashing against the walls and causing the rusted items along them to sway, banging against each other in a metallic calamity. Blue and red lights are circling outside, splitting the darkness like violet beacons. Human silhouettes fill the empty spaces with hammering footfalls as they file into the barn. Beams from flashlights dart around the new chaos forming around me. Barking and distorted shouts pile on top of each other as I quickly begin to lose interest in what is happening around me. Something cold and wet blows against the skin on my face, as huge rubbery jowls froth on my ear and pieces of my hair. A pair of hands then cup gently around my shoulders as I feel gravity loosen its hold on me, almost completely. I am lifted from the floor and my limp body is held tightly against a firm, warm chest, but it is not enough to relinquish the everlasting chill that has taken hold of me. I wish to stay against this new safe haven, but I feel like I am continuing to rise past my savior. More shouts erupt as I am placed back on the ground, but my body doesn’t feel it. Instead, I am watching myself, having ascended high in the rafters of the barn. My body seems so small down there, surrounded by towering figures trying to revive me. But at this moment, I feel so much better than I did just a second ago. I am okay. Why can’t they see that I am okay? I try to call down to them, but no words come out when I open my mouth.

I watch as three people hover over me, ripping my dress at the collar and putting large stickers on my chest. My body jolts once, then their hands make a fist as they beat against me. Then one of them kisses me. Twice. I continue to watch as my skin is no longer peach with life, but they continue the pattern. Jolt, beat kiss. Jolt, beat, kiss. My color begins to seep into the dirt of the floor as one of the men covers his face with a trembling hand and they all stop. The air is blanketed in silence as I am picked up again gently and carried out of the barn. There is no more shouting, no more panic. The flashing lights outside the barn, like silent fireworks, roll away, leaving the night even darker than it had been. The dust settles, and I remain perched above the memory evermore.

Sometimes when I go out for a hunt at night, my wings take a flight all their own, bringing me beyond the fields of the farm, toward the town, littered with yellow lights lining the roads and smelly green bins collecting dewdrops in the misty evening. There is a particular tree with crooked branches in the middle of the town, nestled within a neatly clipped yard with a bubbling fountain tucked away in the corner of a garden. There are two ropes tied to the lowest branch, suspending a plank of wood in the air. This tree sits outside of a window on the second story of a yellow house made of brick. Delicate shades of ivory and pink are draped around the walls of a little square bedroom, stuffed animals nestled along the top of the bed, resting against the bookshelf. Pictures are displayed on a small white vanity in colorful frames. Pictures of a little girl with her arms slung around the neck of a dog, pictures of a mother and father with their daughter. Pictures of a life that did not last as long as it should have.

Every now and then, the door to the room will open slowly, and a woman will stand in the doorway for what seems like years, staring straight ahead, peering past the walls and into some unknown force of herself. She blinks away a tear and plucks a stuffed animal from the middle of the bed. It looks worn, well-loved. A barn owl. She brings it to her face and takes a mild breath in. With a fateful sigh, her daughter is with her again. But only for a moment. The woman I see is not angry as I might have feared before I left her. This emotion is different. Heartache. I coo at her remorsefully as she exits the room and must maintain her reality without me. The barn is my nest, but this was my home.