Tom walked with it down the stairs, letting the wood creak and warp with his footsteps-he could only focus on so much at a time, and right now his mind was buzzing.
The bird wanted to be freed from the space in his hands. It moved and moved, and Tom just walked faster, on the edges of the stairs, quickly reaching the bottom. His bare, wet feet slid against the cold floor dangerously. The drying rain cooled on his skin.
Aunt Polly and Sid were downstairs, sitting at the table and drinking tea. Tom kept walking.
Tom reached the front door and looked at it.
"Tom?" Aunt Polly asked, looking up from drinking her tea.
"Someone aughta open the door." Tom said. He stood in front of the big door, waiting. The bird struggled in his hands, its quick heartbeats beating against his cupped palms.
"What's that in your hands, Tom?" Aunt Polly asked, leaning over the table to try to see better. Sid got up, walking to the door. Tom watched Sid slowly open the door, and cold, humid, windy air came in suddenly. The rain hit harshly, dripping off the edges of the porch's roof.
"A bird." Tom nudged the door open wider and went through to the porch.
"What?" Aunt Polly said from the table, and Tom could hear her chair scooting out quickly against the flooring. They gathered behind Tom as he set it down on the porch. It coughed and stared at him, very still, watching angrily. "Why, I-Tom!" Aunt Polly exclaimed, air coming to her in sputters.
"Peter still got a little fight left. Why, if he ain't sleeping in the neighbor's house again, I'll bet he'll come running and eat that bird right up." Sid said, and Tom turned around quickly, leaning towards him with a glare.
"No." Tom said. Sid stood there staring at him for a moment, then looked away. Taking a step back, Sid shrugged.
"Whatever." Sid said. "He's probably not hungry, anyway."
Tom walked past them back inside.
"Tom, why did you have a bird in the house?" Aunt Polly asked. Tom ran a hand through his hair, unsure how to answer completely, and went to the kitchen.
"...It flew in." Tom said. He looked around, finding an old piece of bread left on the counter. He took a small piece off-better than nothing if it wanted to eat, Tom reckoned. He went back to the porch, setting it down by the bird. Tom was by the edge, rain hitting his feet at sharp angles.
Aunt Polly and Sid looked a moment longer, then went back inside. They closed the door behind them, not wanting the floors to get wet with rain, not wanting all the inside air to escape. Tom sat and kept watching the bird sit there.
He looked at its grey colors, at its dark, dark eyes.
It turned its head, and Tom turned his, also.
The sky was black. The rain clouded it all-the darkness was thick, spitting, enveloping. It felt like Tom was floating in it, like he was surrounded up to the neck in the river, hearing it swirl and push around him. The storm had its own kind of current.
Tom got up and took a step closer to the street-he couldn't see the stars, but the rain reminded him of cicadas. The thunder reminded him of rustling trees, of open nights in the forest. The rain gave its own kind of remembrance-all those moments were still in his mind, still spinning and forming and filling him.
The rain had been blowing in onto the porch, and it was hitting his clothes, drenching him in cold; soaking his skin; making his hair drip into his face, making him push it back with tired fingers.
All those moments, those good moments, had passed.
He had to end this.
Tom went back inside to his room. Aunt Polly and Sid had moved back to their own spots in their corners of the house, finished with their teas, and now it was dark inside. Quiet. He stumbled up the creaky stairs, making sure they heard he was back inside.
He went into his room, feeling the pull of his door one last time; seeing the small, untidy, old room as it had been for years. He was finally done with this place. He didn't need it. He would always be trapped, as long as he was here. The longer he waited, the more there was to hold him down. A wife. A job. A house. A kid. He couldn't take that-if he didn't leave now, he never would.
He walked to his schoolbag and dumped it out, hearing the notebooks thud,
He packed a bag.