In the Birdcage
by Isabella Fonseca
Let’s make one thing clear: Flora Perry did not eat the crow. She swallowed it. Its inky feathers slipped down her throat, leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. What else was she to do? She was seven years old and hunched by the side of a gravel road, clay staining her dress red and sea salt tears streaking her cheeks. That’s when she saw it in the yellowing grass: a crow with its talons sunk deep into the innards of a dead squirrel.
Flora shot straight up, her eyes narrowing, her face turning crimson. She marched over to the crow and did what seemed logical only to a girl of seven—she stuffed the thing in her mouth before it could eat the squirrel. Immediately (and expectedly), she regretted the choice. The fluttering in her stomach. The bird’s heartbeat in line with her own. Still, he’d deserved it. She wiped her tears with the backs of her grimy hands. No point in killing a dead thing again, you stupid crow.
Ten years later, that stupid crow remained alive inside Flora, his wings occasionally getting caught beneath her ribs. Even now, while she weaved her way through a hedge maze of beige and blue buildings, he refused to leave her alone. It began with a tickle in her chest and scratch at her throat, followed by a storm of feathers and talons, violent and afraid.
Something is wrong, Elvis, the crow, told her in his strange way.
Flora gulped down the feeling and kept moving forward. That’s how she found the forest-green house owned by the Fosters, tall and folding to the harsh winds. Through the stained glass, she spotted the silhouette of a woman with a young child and in the upstairs window, a boy no younger than her seventeen years.
A laugh escaped Flora, dumbfounded by what she was about to do. The Fosters were the reason she had come here. She had traveled all this way to meet a family of TV psychics, rumored con artists with no psychic abilities whatsoever. The type of people who pretended to be something they were not, but maybe that’s what made them like any other family.
Regardless, she swallowed the lump in her throat as she climbed the steps and knocked on the door three times. The face of a middle-aged woman met her, round and pale like the moon.
Flora was seven. She stood in the middle of her aunt’s bedroom, the one with the peeling floral wallpaper, and flipped through a book about birds. Her Aunt Calista’s face, boney and slender, peered down at her.
“Flora,” Aunt Calista said in her syrupy voice. “Please set aside the book and put on the dress. I know this is rough, but you have to try at least, alright? She would’ve loved this dress.”
Flora sighed and dropped the hardback book on the bed. Her mom would not have loved the white dress. But her mom wasn’t here, so why did it matter? She slipped her small arms through the sleeves. Tears welled in her eyes.
Flora’s aunt grabbed her hand. “Come on now, or else we’ll be late.”
Flora peeked out the window. In the yard, she could see her family members arriving, and out farther, a group of crows swarmed near a tree. Flora squinted through her blurry tear-filled vision, hoping to get a closer look at the birds. She gave a slight smile. “Aunt Calista, did you know my book says a group of crows is called a murder?”
Her aunt looked at her and then forced a laugh. “Well, isn’t that silly?”
The woman, Mrs. Foster, peeked her round face through the crack of the door. “What can I help you with?”
Before Flora could respond, she began to cough violently. Elvis rattled inside her, talons scratching to escape. The sudden movement startled the woman, who jumped back. Unable to control Elvis, Flora leaned over the railing of the stairs and retched, vomiting black feathers. Dark and slick. At that moment, everything looked as if it was made of paint, and if Flora moved, the world would smudge.
Mrs. Foster’s eyes widened, “Did you—did you eat a bird?”
Flora drew herself up, pulling a feather off her tongue, “I swallowed a crow. I didn’t eat it.”
“I see.” Mrs. Foster did not actually seem to see.
“It’s why I’m here,” Flora explained. “I’m a huge fan of your show, and I came to ask for your help.”
The woman fidgeted with the lacy collar of her shirt. “Oh, honey, I don’t know. Maybe you should see a real doctor for that.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’m desperate. He’s um, alive. Like the crow is alive inside me and since—”
Mrs. Foster tensed and slammed the door.
Flora flinched. She took a breath to still herself and then stumbled down the green steps, defeated. She had gone to everyone she could think of to get rid of the bird. Doctors, mediums, and even now a con artist—no one could take Elvis out of Flora. Most people didn’t even try. Maybe Elvis would reside inside her forever, trapped in the haunted house of her ribcage.
Exhausted, Flora collapsed on the sidewalk in front of the psychics’ house. Here she was, once again, a scared little girl, hunched over in the road with nowhere to go. Maybe I’ll swallow a vulture this time, she thought and laughed to herself. Flora dropped her head in her palms, stringing her fingers through waves of brown hair. The same color as her mother’s.
Elvis grew frantic.
“What’s wrong with you today?” Flora yelled at the crow, her voice echoing from the deep hollows of her chest. “Why won’t you leave me alone?” Tears burned in her eyes. “Please, Elvis, I’m just so tired.”
But Elvis had no sympathy for Flora. He cawed and pecked and screeched and flailed until Flora had no choice but to listen.
It was after the dinner party.
The first one Flora had attended at Aunt Calista’s house without her parents. She had attempted to talk to the other kids, telling them facts about animals, and ancient Greece, and even stars, but all they’d done in return was stare. They, apparently, were not interested in the death of Betelgeuse.
Later, Flora had snuck out to Aunt Calista’s backyard with the tall grass and rolling hills. She had kicked off her shoes to feel the earth beneath her feet and tiptoed over to the garden to pluck wildflowers. As soon as she had found her mom’s favorite, a violet, she heard Aunt Calista’s bittersweet voice. She and Uncle James were taking their cigarette break, trailing smoke and hushed voices behind the old shed.
“I worry about that girl. She’s gotten so weird.”
“Well, she is our sister’s girl. She’s always been weird.” That was Uncle James.
Aunt Calista chuckled. “I don’t know what to do with her. She rarely talks to me, and when she does, it’s always about something odd.”
“I don’t know, Listy. You’re the one who signed up to take her. This has to be a hard time for the girl.”
“Could you hear her trying to talk to your kids earlier?” Aunt Calista spat. I just—I just think she could use a little help, you know? I mean, she’s constantly crying about something. Even small things.”
Flora recoiled at the words. Distraught, she scurried away from the shed, stumbling and holding back her tears. She ran down the hill past her aunt’s house, but her feet tangled in the grass. Her knees buckled, and she tumbled down the hill until she found herself at the gravel road, breathless. The rocks pricked beneath her bare feet.
There was no one. Not her parents and not even her aunt and uncle. Flora Perry was all alone. Hunched on the side of the gravel road, her white dress stained in red clay. Although she already felt dead, the world seemed to keep pecking her. That’s when she saw it behind the grass. She swallowed her pain and rose to her feet.
And then, she swallowed the crow.
Flora stayed beside the road till the sky painted dark. No one even noticed she was gone. No stars were out that night, just a satellite. So, she wished on that instead.
I wish I could be normal. I wish I could let it go.
Flora didn’t want to remember the pain of that seven-year-old girl, so she perched on the sidewalk with her eyes sewn shut. Her vision was black, with no stars in sight. And then, she began to sob. Loud, scratchy, violent sobs. The guttural wails grew more piercing when something tugged inside her, talons clawing at the soft skin in her throat. It was so long ago, she thought. Why are you like this, Flora? Can’t you just let it go? Other people have it so much worse. Flora coughed. She raged. She cursed the unfairness of her parents’ deaths until the tugging stopped.
Flora opened her eyes. She couldn’t feel Elvis anymore, but she didn’t need to wonder why. In front of her was a crow. He gazed up at her, eyes dark like pools of ink, spilling into his feathery black coat.
“Elvis?”
Steps shuffled behind her. The bird startled and flew off into the sky, leaving behind a single feather and the now, the abandoned house of Flora Perry.
“Were you talking to that raven?” A voice asked her.
She looked up and saw it was the boy from the window, one of the Fosters. “It’s a crow,” she said, her voice hoarse. A tear ran down her cheek.
He gave her a crooked smile and glanced back up to the sky. “I don’t know my bird species, but he was pretty cool.”
She couldn’t quite tell if he was genuine, but there was something warm about his expression. She swallowed. “Did you know a group of crows is called a murder?”
He laughed playfully. “Yeah? Really?”
Flora followed the boy’s gaze, hoping to see Elvis one last time, but the bird was gone. Her chest still ached from where he’d perched, and the sour taste still lingered in her mouth. Grief was not a feeling she could shake off like a feather.
Despite it all, Flora looked back at the boy and smiled.
About the Author
Isabella Fonseca is a high school student from Georgia. Although she can usually be found with pointe shoes on her feet or a violin in her hand, her one true dream is to become a clever YA character. And if that doesn’t happen, she’ll settle for writing one.