Heliophilia; d.m

XL

TW: death, psychological trauma.

—

VIOLET

Until I was four, when my parents had split up and my father had left our house — we had an owl named Dina.

Her feathers were snow white, and her eyes were two topaz stones that burned through me every time she looked at me.

It always seemed strange to me how she would bend her little neck, almost making a circle with her head, and her eyes — her eyes, seemed to hypnotize me.

She belonged to my father, but my mother loved her as if she was hers. In fact, everyone loved her, except me.

She scared me, my childish brain was afraid of the sounds she made, her sharp, long claws that she used to cling to the bars of her cage, her beak that she could easily pierce my skin through — I was afraid of Dina like fire, and all I could do was just sit next to her cage, looking into her mesmerizing blue eyes.

I didn't want her to leave the cage. I could cry, scream hysterically, or run to my room in a panic and hide between the window and the bed when my parents wanted to open her cage and let her fly freely around our house.

"Violet, she can't stay in a cage all the time, she's a living thing," My parents always told me when I begged them not to let her out, "Would you like to be locked in a small cage all the time, without even being able to spread your wings?"

It should have weighed on my guilt and changed my mind, but it didn't. I still didn't want Dina to be released from her cage, and I didn't care that she needed her freedom.

Then my father left our house, taking her and her cage with him, and I couldn't be happier. I no longer had to be afraid and tearfully beg to leave Dina locked up.

I was free of her, and she was free of her cage, because after moving to another house, my father could let her go whenever he wanted.

Many years had passed since then, and Dina had died long ago — long before my mother had died, and now the little owl was free forever.

And I — I was trapped in a cage now, and no one wanted to let me out, just like I once didn't want to let Dina out.

Voldemort had said that a few days should have been enough, but two weeks had passed, and I was still sitting there, on the cold floor, next to the iron bars that hid the unattainable freedom.

The strip of light was a beacon for me, and I refused to move from where I was, so as not to get used to the darkness, because most of all I wanted to return to the light.

My bones ached, my muscles were numb, I didn't seem to stop shivering from the cold for a second, and I felt like I was completely soaked with mold, both inside and out.

My throat hurt like there was a fire, like there were needles, and I managed to stifle a cough most of the time since I wasn't talking — I was weak, and I didn't want to waste too much energy talking.
Maybe I could have died of pneumonia, but I didn't really care, it wasn't the worst outcome.

At first, I struggled to stay sane, scratching lines on the loose, concrete wall to indicate the days I'd spent there — when I'd heard voices from above and the streak of light was bright, it was day. When the dead silence fell, and the light was very dim, barely visible, it meant that night had fallen.

But every day I felt worse and worse, I often unconsciously drifted off to sleep, or it was a loss of consciousness, I could no longer distinguish what I heard — a noise from above or a noise in my ears, it was difficult for me to focus on the strip of light, because my eyes were heavy and constantly closed, and my lines on the wall stopped at thirteen.