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The Feather
His breaths come shorter and shorter, mind reeling one final time, like it's trying to make up for any and all indolence in its too-short life. Fragmented pictures and thoughts strobe through his skull, sending a shiver down his spine that splinters as it runs to the tip of every finger and toe. A dull rumble gains momentum until an encumbering roar vibrates in his ears, to the point where he cringes and bows his head because he knows he can't do this anymore. It's time for quiet and silence and rest. It's time for this to stop.
A feather brushes his shoulder. It catches, and sits heavy near his neck, until he wiggles out from under its weights, shrugging it off. It falls silently to the floor, as feathers should.
The feather's talking now, and he doesn't have the strength or will to swipe at it—to run from it—so he prays for a breeze to take it away. A short gust of wind to sweep it up and carry it off into the horizon, where all feathers eventually go. They never stay. They're too light. Too careless and heartless. Soft and comforting for a while, but ultimately dead and meaningless.
But this one's not as light as all the others. It must have something in its core, something weighing it down, anchoring it in this particular place, because it's holding its ground. Strong, like the steel of the gun in his hand. Heavy, like the tiny lead bullets filling its barrel, giving it presence. Giving it meaning.
This feather still has meaning.
It's still delicate, and he knows this because the feather is crying, like its life isn't over and its hopeful heart still beats a rhythm. It's crying softly. Like it cares.
It says something about the meaning of life, but not in so many words. It says, "Don't." And really, "don't" is the antithesis of life, but it means something different right now. It means there's a reason not to die.
The feather has grown, multiplied, increased in expanse, morphed into a boa, wrapping around both his shoulders now, spreading out slowly until it challenges the heavy gun propped loosely in his right hand.
He's so surprised—so shocked that a feather would even attempt to duel with the sharp steel—that he doesn't fight it. He watches in awe as the feather lifts the gun from his fingers so effortlessly. Like it has the strength of a million feathers combined. Like it really cares.
And as if its goal is to defy all logic, all things he has come to believe, the feather grips his shoulders and spins his body around roughly, forcing him to face it, completely enveloping him with its softness and newfound weight.
But his eyes aren't wide; they aren't able to express the shock assaulting his insides. Instead, they're damming out the tears. Because this is a phenomenon. This is unheard of. This is a truly sublime moment and the unprecedented experience is melting his heart with its potential.
"Oh, Ryan," it sobs against his neck.
He wraps his arms around its slight frame, absorbing the heat that seeps through his shirt and warms his skin instantaneously. And it strikes him so hard, like a silver flash of light—brighter than the steel and heavier than the feather—that his breaths are hindered, wracked by every emotion he tried so hard to believe he never experienced. And it makes the pain hurt a little bit more and the fear dig a little deeper. But it's somehow better.
He'd long ago dismissed the idea. He didn't think it would ever happen. He didn't think he'd ever be so lucky—it wasn't in his blood.
But now he knows.
This feather isn't going to drift away with the wind. This feather can weather the storm.