Pretty Bird
(from Kuja's perspective)
by melusine
I should have locked her away when I had
the chance, caged her, her sweet song delighting my ears and mine
alone. Caged, a bird could be silent; starving, she could
discover that a few musical peeps would summon supper, a song a
banquet; each rolling note a lesson in desperation. The bird
would learn certain songs pleasing to her master's ear and,
when bars had made her feathers dull, she would be permitted
space to flutter in and a basin to bathe in. . .but always in
sight, and always connected to her cage by a slender thread.
Dependent on her master for every facet of her existence, knowing
that any second he could snuff her small life, she would come to
trust him . .love him. . .view his every gesture, every gesture
not resulting in pain, as an act of love. I should have caged her
when I had a chance.
She was elusive in her home, slipping from my sight, shrinking
from my touch . . .her light fading as her mother eclipsed her,
her blubbery lips curled in perverse pleasure. Greed had replaced
suffering, just as Garnet had replaced her dead dear. . .she
viewed me as the answer to her greed, the answer to her
husband's loss. I told her I would grant her anything,
anything within reason. And she would smile, her lips sliding
over her hog's teeth; her sickening bulk sloshing in a
nightmarish mockery of seduction as she plodded to her room.
Stock still, I had watched her, disgusted, bile burning in my
throat; watched her while her pretty bird flew off.
It was pleasant to see her again, hold her. . .feel her revulsion at my touch diffuse as she slipped into sleep. I
had tried to keep my eyes on her face as I followed her mother and her gabbling jesters down the twisting staircase,
my skin prickling at my own memories of being carried, drowsed, down unfamiliar hallways. . .my head resting
not on cloth, but on cold metal. Perhaps all want, all love, all lust, stems from a need for understanding. . .and I
desired my canary because I understood her; her world having been bound by the walls of Alexandria's castle
infinitely more appealing than any feature of her face. For years I had lived a life whose entire universe lay within a
section of Pandemonium's hollow halls; only myself and Garland, a god of machines. In what could be called my
childhood, I used to believe that only he and I existed, that we were the last futile vestiges of Terran civilization.
Years would pass, breathing in stale air and learning only what Garland chose to teach; feeling emotions I
didn't know the words for. . .still don't know the words for in my own language. He treated me like an adult,
ignoring my child's mind, child's curiousity, my inability to fully understand the implications of what he said. We
learned from each other, he and I; there would always be a sense of possession even after I fled. Every year a new
door, a new room would be opened to me: the bridge, the maze, the room where the blue light blazed terrible. Once
he opened a new room and left me alone for days, not telling me where it was or what it was for, a smile playing on
his lips that I didn't like.
. . .unfinished. . .