There are dead bird feathers on the stones here, Father.
There are birds outside too, and I cannot tell if they are purposely throwing themselves against the shell of light-killing magic that surrounds this place, or if the wind embraces and kills them, but in the end they all fall into the sea. And their feathers come into my birdcage.
Dead bird feathes come to the birdcage.
They are the feathers of gulls and skuas and once an albatross, such bad luck for it to die, their feathers grey-white like my skin, and perhaps once they were silken. Now they are heavy, laden with moisture, separated from smoothness into spikes. The bit near the bottom, the part of a quill to write with, should be downy, white, soft- they are twisted and sodden, tangled hair--human, white?
I hold them like quills, Father, your son who earned twelve O.W.L.s, I hold them and could I write? There is nothing to write with in this place, no ink, except for blood and even that runs dry, too cold and soaked with salt-flavored mist to rise. Would it come grey? Does blood run wicked grey, the color of the dome of the sky and the desert of water? Grey blood, that is killed blood, and I am slaughtered. You sent me to this place of grey-running blood, Father. Father, you killed me; you're killing me, Father. Start laughing now.
Don't ever stop.
Laughing and laughing and not ever stopping, drawing deceased darkened blood with broken-edged quills; they have been broken like wood or bone snapped; all of the place which extinguishes light that you have exiled me to, Father, is monotonous blood-colored--walls, celing, floor, Nazgul, walls, celing, floor...
Birdcages are not made of stone and birdcages made of stone would fall, but birdcages do not have Nazgul and this cage will never fall. Death, and falling; the moment of death the falling headlong begins and those who fall are marked, sealed, to fall-- The ones who do not fall are immune to gravity but I have gravity tied to my arm like a child like a black balloon, Father, and you don't.
Gravity, Father, gravity is what keeps us tied to earth and it is beautiful, and death is beautiful--
And I do not think it is, Father, death feels chilled and miserable, my wings clipped and my stomach full of first holy communion. Treason.
Traitors die, Father, you are making me into a traitor and furthermore you sent me into the womb of death, killing me twice over and so I blame and accredit my thoughts of treason to you.
Freud is a brilliant man, whoever he is, because in the end it was not you wh osaved me but my mother who lowered herself immensely to marry you. Gravity remained tethered, but in a straight and narrow string-path from it cut a line, not grey, but exhausted red, and from that moment on death was no more drowning in pain, after drinking physical pain and re-learning how to walk.
But not yet, despite all beautiful things, am I yet out of the birdcages, for I remain dead and imprisoned under the weapons you wield, Father, but my blood dances free.
Father, you killed me and left me in the in-between place. Dead bird feathers marred by salt and blood that splattered, tarred the floor. Marred and tarred, splattered and slaughtered, souls and souls and salt.
I shall forever see birds and see death, Father, and you have made me what I am, a pureblood man afraid of dead birds.