Disclaimer: All characters in this story belong to Joss Whedon and I take no credit in their creation or actions.
They were going through her things. It was odd how the objects scattered throughout the mockingbird's cage were called hers and yet they did not belong to her. This world was strange. There were too many feelings that made no sense. Why hate? Just destroy with no care. Fear was understandable, the beings that inhabited this world were weak and susceptible to this emotion.
Love.
That is the feeling that is incomprehensible. What is it? I do not know. Wesley has tried telling me but has failed. He says that love is pain.
But then says he had so much joy with "her".
When I ask of the dark woman titled Lilah he says that that was another type of love. These two loves seem almost opposite yet they are the same. How? I cannot understand these human feelings.
Her cage was... is small, confined.
Would it be past because she is gone, or present because it still exists without her? Is it really a room without anyone in it or just a confined space?
Wesley calls this existentialism. This is the thought on how things exist.
There is a book in the "room" that is called Nausea. The symptom in which the stomach region is discomforted and usually causes vomiting. That definition was in a dictionary also in the room. But the book is not about the stomach feeling, it is about a man who finds that everything exists. I found it quite dull. The thoughts of a long dead human on his feelings of existence. I cannot find a reason why she would have liked this diary.
There are many unimportant items inside the cage. Books are everywhere. Why did this being love words written on paper? Nothing on them is significant. There are clothes that seem to bring out her form. I do not need them. I have a shell.
There is a stuffed animal shaped like a bunny. It is small and dirty. When I first picked it up a memory came to me and I let a part of her through. It said, "Feigenbaum the master of destruction, I found you. Where have you been all this..."
Wesley broke out of his calm covering then. Telling me that I had promised not to do that. The look in his eyes was of pure hatred. It caused a small wave of pain to course through the body. Feelings left over.
He realized that anger would not solve anything and took a deep breath. Trying to relax himself, he strained to calmly say, "I asked you not to do that anymore. You must keep your part of the bargain".
I merely nodded my head and continued to explore the space.
There was a bed, the one she had perished on. Drawers on the side of the bed and wrappers of candy and tacos in the trashcan.
Something caught my eye, or the liking of her. It was another book titled, To Kill a Mockingbird. The cover was worn and scarred from many years of reading. On the cover was an illustration of a girl looking up at a bird in a tree. The book was written by a being named Harper Lee. For some odd reason I felt love towards this piece of pressed paper. I opened the cover and without thinking I flipped to page nine and started reading, "Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then:"
I paused. This book intrigued me, but I did not know why. Maybe it was her left over feelings or just me. I asked Wesley why it was written this way. The people talked and acted different in this story than in this present time. He said it was written in a different time period. In a time where money was in short supply and different races were seen as dirt. He said that culture was not the same as it is today. This explanation did not help much. I continued to read while he went through the shell's things. As I read I became entangled in the story.
I was, as Wesley calls it, lost in the plot. While I read, time did not matter and only what happened to the character, Scout, was relevant. By the time Tom Robinson was convicted guilty, it was dark and Wesley said that it was time for sleep. I merely shook him off and told him that I needed no sleep. But he said that if I wanted to learn to walk in this world I would have to start acting more human. He added that I already was by becoming transfixed by a book that Fred had loved.
I suddenly felt mortified, a feeling of horror in humans. I was becoming more human than I had planned. I had spent the whole day reading the shell's treasured book. I was a powerful ancient god reading a fictional story that was written years ago and had nothing to do with the world today.
I paused and reconsidered. By becoming more human I could understand them better. Maybe reading this would help. I wouldn't know until I finished the story. And I had a sense of curiosity to find out what would happen to Tom and what would happen if you killed a mockingbird. I stayed up for the rest of the night while Wesley slept in another room. I soon was again lost in the storyline and being excited by Scout's progress through life.
I had never felt anger towards a fictional human until Bob Ewell tried to murder Atticus's children. Harper Lee had made me feel sorry for the poor children getting attacked by a disturbed man.
I stopped there to ponder the human sensations coursing through the body. These were feelings that I had never experienced. They were odd, yet I was intrigued. I continued to read.
The children were saved by the man that had caused them terror, Boo Radley. When Atticus told Scout not to tell anyone about Boo coming out and saving them, I realized that Boo was the mockingbird. He had done no harm to anyone but had saved the lives of innocent children.
It is a sin, in this human populated world, to kill a mockingbird. This book had proved it. I had no doubt because the book had shown it to me. It was rather peculiar that an old story written by a long dead human would convince me that killing a mockingbird is wrong. Wesley called this true writing. Whether it was the shell or me, I loved this book. An odd sort of love but indeed a love.
I looked over at the head of the bed and had a flash of her memory. Her lying there, ready to die, and Wesley trying to be strong for her. She had done nothing wrong in the world, only created beautiful music.
It then hit me like the axe that had shattered when Wesley slammed it on my skull. She was a mockingbird.
The shell, Fred, was a mockingbird. Gorgeous and innocent.
Never doing anything wrong in life but helping others. I had killed the mockingbird. Whether it was my choice or not, it was me who had destroyed her. Human feelings consumed me.
A tear fell out of my . . .her eye. I wiped it away and looked at it. As I sat there on her bed, I thought aloud to myself, "What does happen when you kill a mockingbird?" I suppose I will find out.
Wesley lay on the floor in the other room listening to the ancient god ponder on why she was sad. She was learning what it was like to be a human. He couldn't help but smile.
Illyria was questioning her existence in Fred's body. He knew a part of Fred must still be alive and that little part would help him to teach the god to be "good".
We cling to what is gone, he thought to himself, her memory is all I have left. With that he stiffly got up and walked to the door leading to the roof. He would be there all night thinking of what was lost...