Crimson and White

On a night colder than any in memory, somewhere on the backroads of an old New England countryside, a man traveled home to a small, unnamed town where white smoke billowed from brick chimney tops. On the eve of a winter holiday, families gathered inside their dwellings, held up from the nips of cold air and whips of sharp wind blustering outside. The man, instead, drove alone through a bleak and dreary scene far from there, his only companion an old, clunking, dilapidated green car that had seen many years past its prime.

The falling snow had just begun to stick, leaving a white veil upon the road like a sheet of undisturbed spider silk. The trees with their barren limbs now dusted in a fine powder reflected silvery while large flakes of snow danced slowly downward in patterns one could only swear were choreographed. Beams of moonlight peeked through the tapestry of white branches, projecting like suspended cloaks of opalescent lace frozen in time. Truly a serene backdrop, the slogged chugging of the old green car’s overworked engine was the only sound heard for miles.

As the man drove on, he bounced from thought to thought, his mind drifting from the waking world. A bump in the road took him back to his body, shaken out of whatever scene had been playing in his head. Just then, the small light that illuminated the car’s dashboard began to flicker, fading in and out in a rhythmic pulse. In tandem, the headlights dimmed to a low glow before cutting out completely. The right headlight then popped brightly seconds later, illuminating the road for a moment before flickering, dimming, and fading out once again. The left headlight remained darkened while the right continued this pattern, illuminating the landscape in a strobing cadence of almost musical nature.

Now in quiet dismay, the man began driving more briskly, his car hugging the curves of the road striving to cut down the miles between where he was and where he wished to be. Around gently twisting bends, and the undulating rises and dips in country lanes, he continued, silently praying that the car would carry him home before sputtering to its final halt. Rounding the baseline side of a sloped hill, the road straightened allowing for the path ahead to be seen in flashes of light from the slowly blinking headlight.

In the nearing distance, the man spied what looked like a bouncing mound of soft snow, slowly bounding out into the road ahead of him. As the lone headlight continued to pop and flash, it illuminated what he realized, just too late, were a pair of tiny eyes. The profile of a white cottontail rabbit was now visible, and the space between the two was quickly closing.

The man slammed hard on the breaks, his muscles stiffening as the wheels locked and the car began to skid forward on the slick, snow-covered road. It was as if time had slowed, his eyes fixed on the rabbit which was disappearing and reappearing with every pulse of the headlight. As the car closed in on the last few feet between itself and the rabbit, something else entered the field of vision from out of the man’s peripheral. An owl, wings spread was in full dive headed straight for the rabbit. The popping and flashing of the dying headlight captured every frame in slow motion, burning them into the man’s mind in a series of frozen vignettes. The owl, its black eyes like wells of ink hung in the air in a moment of stasis and silence. Its stark white face paler than the surrounding snowfall, reflecting brightly in the bursts of light before vanishing into shadow. The split-second event had transformed into a slide show of individual instances as the car continued forward until both the rabbit and owl disappeared past the hood of the car.

Two hard thumps and the screech of worn wheels skidding on pavement returned the man to real-time, like the needle on a warped record finding its groove once more. The car eased to a stop and the grumbling engine cut out, taking the remaining light along with it. The man, his heart pounding like tribal drums inside his chest, remained seated, white-knuckling the steering wheel for what felt like an eternity. Only minutes had passed when he finally loosened his grip, allowing blood to circulate back into his fingers. He reached for a flashlight in the center console, creaked open the rusted car door, and stepped out reluctantly towards a shadowy mound in the road behind him.

A beautiful creature, the owl laid motionless upon the thin layer of snow that had blanketed the road. Its left-wing bent mangled, stuck in an awkward position while its cotton-white underside quickly turned a bright shade of crimson. Its eyes like large black pearls gazed widely through the man in a state of tranquility. A single tear ran down the man’s left cheek and fell from his chin, disappearing into the owl’s soft white down feathers. Suddenly, with the eerie feeling of being watched washing over him, his head jerked quickly to the side. It was then when he saw it, no more than ten feet away, a small white rabbit, frozen, its two reflective red eyes staring back at him.

Their eyes met for a long moment before he turned his attention back to the owl. The owl remained motionless, somehow even stiller than before, its black eyes formerly shining now vacant and cold. Once more he turned his head to glance back at the rabbit, but this time there was nothing there.

The man could not bear to leave the owl in the middle of the cold street where snow would cover it and other cars might pass over it unknowingly. He also felt it wrong of him to just move it to the roadside and abandon it. He decided it best he took the owl back with him, where he could then dig a hole and give it a proper burial.

Gathering a blanket he pulled from the car’s back seat, the man carefully wrapped the owl and placed it gently in the trunk nestled between a cardboard box and a suitcase. He returned to the driver seat and with a prayer much less silent than his previous, he jerked the key forward in the ignition. To his astonishment, the engine roared to life, both headlights now beaming like two large holes cutting day into the night. The remaining drive home was accompanied by deafening silence transposed atop a carousel of thoughts.

The man pulled into his driveway and sat for a minute with the car idling before turning off the engine and exiting back into the sharp air. Upon opening the trunk, he stood stunned. The heap between the box and suitcase where the owl was placed earlier was now flat. The blanket lay there, neatly folded, with one singular white feather adorning its center like a crowned jewel. He looked around in bewilderment, half expecting someone to be there, holding the owl, authenticating his sanity for him, but instead the streets were vacant and still. Perplexing as it was, and heavy as it weighed down upon him, the man, exhausted and drained, shut his trunk and retired inside. He fell face-first into his pillow and before his eyes even had a chance to fully close, sleep welcomed him.

That night, he dreamt of a lake isolated in a clearing amidst a wooded area much like the one he had driven through earlier. Snow was falling but the air was not cold as it should be, rather it was to his surprise, quite warm. The scenery hung in silence as he walked slowly out from the line of trees and towards the lake. When he reached the shore, he peered down into the water expecting to be met by his reflection, but instead, there was nothing, a deep, vast, endless nothing. He became lost within the blackness he gazed upon. Memories flashed both forward and backward in nauseating torrents. He could feel the snowflakes landing on his head and shoulders melting and trickling warmly down his body.

Time passed, yet he knew not how long. Still fixated, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that the snow was no longer the angelic shade of white it had just been. It was now shining a bright, bold crimson that he need not ponder to know what it was. As the melting flakes ran down his face and reached his lips, he tasted the unmistakable sweet metallic flavor of blood. It took every ounce of his being to break focus and turn away from the lake. He spun around, only to be blinded by the popping flash of an enveloping light before being jerked backward. He felt himself plunge into the lake, which felt more like thick, viscous ink than water. He let out a scream, but only silence pervaded his mind. Feelings of doom and happiness, regret and joy, contentment and yearning, all flooded his mind in spiraling dissonance. The black ink now filling his lungs, he sank deeper and deeper, into not only the lake but himself.

The man stirred abruptly to morning light, heavy eyelids, and a cold shiver down his spine. He also felt the pains of hunger in his gut as if he hadn’t eaten in days and he honestly wasn’t sure if he had. Still dizzied from the intensity of his dream, he attempted to rub the sleep out of his eyes, however, something felt different in his hands. Try as he might, he could not move his fingers. As his vision, though still blurry, slowly returned, he realized he was no longer in his bed but instead outside in the snow-covered countryside. His gaze dropped and, in a panic, he realized he was sat up high in a tree at least forty feet from the ground. The shock of the realization jostled him, and he began to fall backward. Attempting to grab hold of the branch and reposition himself, he fell freely, plummeting headfirst to the earth below. With the ground quickly rising to meet him, the man reached out his hands to guard his skull against the impending impact. Instead of intimately greeting the frozen earth with his face, however, he was whipped outward, the resistance of air forcing him horizontal against gravity, until his sight met the horizon.

He soared upward, the sun meeting his brow, the ice-frosted vegetation below him becoming smaller and smaller. His eyesight, which without his glasses could barely be called as such was now perfect. He could clearly make out tiny details in barks of trees and the shingles of roofs atop the houses below. He glanced to his sides, taking a survey of his body in wonder of why his hands had felt so odd. Where his arms once protruded from his shoulders, were now large wings full of feathers colored white, ochre, and buff. Somehow, he was an owl, or rather he was dreaming that he was an owl and after the incident from the previous night, he could understand why this is where his thoughts went. Usually, when he came to the realization he was dreaming though, he would wake up soon after, but this time that was not the case. He climbed the altitudes higher and higher, gaining confidence in his new abilities, but as he began to fly, he began to forget, and with every feather that fell from his wings, another memory fell from his mind.

The owl enjoyed this new form of freedom, freedom from the ground below and he quite liked the sensation of flying. What he didn’t enjoy was the hunger he felt, and he wished he would awaken if only for the sake of a giant holiday breakfast full of fried eggs, smoked sausages, and griddlecakes smothered in butter and syrup. The more he flew, the more he forgot; his family and the life he lived now growing distant like a town shrinking out of sight in the rearview mirror as you drive away. Before long it was nightfall, and the man was no more. The owl had no inclination of its former self, his thoughts now existing only of sky and impulse. His body, once heavily weighted with the stresses and plights of humanity now traded for a vessel of pure primordial instinct. For hours he glided through pines and junipers, all the while hunger pangs coming and going with unrelenting persistence. When he could fly no longer, he chose a branch high on a large birch tree and landed languidly on it. Snow had begun falling again and he was so famished he thought for a moment he might even faint.

Just then, from his perch, the owl spotted movement along the adjacent hillside. It was some kind of creature wandering about the wooded roadside, its white fur barely in contrast with the snow-dusted black pavement of the road. The owl’s fixated tunnel vision zoomed in as if someone had turned the dial on a telescope inside its brain. A carnal feeling overtook, and without making the conscious decision to do so, his body fell into flight.

Picking up speed, his movement remained silent, not even the sound of air escaping from his outstretched wings. Gliding parallel to the ground, he closed in on its prey with a focused voracity. He took the final swoop, down towards his meal; talons pointed out ready to grab ahold. Mere moments before he made contact, however, he found himself engulfed by a bright light as if a miniature sun had just exploded on him. Blinding his eyes before dissipating, the light returned once again and vanished before repeating. The owl, now trapped within the strobing light like a memory trapped in a polaroid, began to remember. He remembered his family, his life, and all things both grand and inconsequential. Every memory inside his head, good, bad, and otherwise descended upon him and swallowed him whole. He remembered the night before. He remembered the drive, the owl, and the screeching halt of the old green car. He remembered everything. He relived an entire lifetime in that one instant.

Before his mind could comprehend what was happening, the night sky found him lying on his back, staring up as snowflakes danced downward around him. He felt warm blood trickling down from his hair, meeting the cold snow on the back of his neck. He blinked once, and before everything went dark a final time, he turned his head and it was then when he saw it, no more than ten feet away, a small white rabbit, frozen, its two reflective red eyes staring back at him.