Bright

The girl had a strange form, too fleshy, the bones too thick. The lack of eyes, particularly disturbing. Bright already felt vulnerable, earthbound like this, her balance thrown off as she stumbled through the woods. Only being able to see forward made her paranoid.

Bright finally found her way out of the forest. In the clearing, blue moonlight shone down on the small cottage. It seemed to be made of wood, of all things. How creative.

Every step towards the door tempted her to rip off these human adornments. The fabric weighed her down, heavy. It bound her legs and rubbed against her skin. The thick leather around her feet squelched as she walked, and it twisted her stomach. She had never been so dirty in her life. Humans, born in mud, buried in mud, and continually stinking of mud.

Bright walked up the steps and knocked on the door. Warm light shone through the windows to each side.

The door opened, a strangely insubstantial swing to it.

A woman stood in the doorway. She was short and broad, stalky and dotted with fat freckles, her hair the color of rye. Her gray-blue eyes settled on Bright and lifted with such warm, human hope.

“Gabby,” gasped the woman.

So that was the girl’s name.

Suddenly, soft arms took Bright in. Slowly, she mimicked the gesture, wrapping her own, sinewy arms around the woman.

“Mother,” she said, and her voice was silver-bell sweet. How fragile.

The woman pulled back and held Bright’s cheeks with calloused, warm hands. “Eddie! Eddie!” The woman called into the house. “Gabby’s come home!” She started pulling Bright inside. “Come in, come in. Oh, you must be so cold.”

Cold? No, not quite. The girl’s clothes clung to her too-plush skin, insulating her hot body, flushing her cheeks, suffocating Bright. As she walked inside she peeled off her jacket which stunk of old blood. She handed it to the woman.

In the living room a man lifted himself from his chair and stared at bright with large green eyes. Fine lines carved his sunken features, and he had closely shaved gray and brown hair, details Bright had not been able to make out the last time she had seen him.

He walked with a limp but did not let it slow him. He grabbed Bright and pulled her into a hug. She found this one harder to stand than the woman’s embrace. The woman smelled like dirt (as did most humans) and faintly of wheat. This man smelled like death.

Bright pulled from him as her gaze landed on the opposite wall. Beautiful, white feathers glinted almost gold, mounted above the fireplace like the head of an animal. Bright ran to them, unable to keep herself. She stood so close that the fireplace’s warmth burned.

“Gabby . . .” said the man. “Gabby, your back. It’s bleeding.”

Bright had no need to respond to that name anymore. She looked down and watched blood from her old torn wounds leak down to the floor.