I don't own Narnia or the Pevensies. Written for a creative writing assignment in English class - "an animal in crisis."
When she opens the door, the hush of the spare room seems to spill out around her ankles. It is raining outside, and the murky windows are murmuring a steady thud thud thud, but she has attention only for the enormity of the white-draped wardrobe on the far wall and the invitation its hidden handle holds. Slowly, reverently, she steps across the old boards towards it, when a desperate, irregular buzzing fills her ears.
In the shifting shadow of the rain-striped window, a single blue-bottle strains against the inevitability of its death. It flutters erratically against the pane, its feeble voice wailing a frantic cry for release as its legs drag it pathetically up and down the wooden window sill, but it can neither escape its fate nor expedite it. She is captivated. Her eyes follow it, watching it draw itself up slowly only to fall the same distance in an instant, watching the hopelessness, the uselessness, the utter futility of its last endeavor to stave off its end. With a morbid fascination, she drinks in the sight, tucks it into her mind for later inspection, and turns back to the wardrobe.
On the sill, the blue-bottle twitches and tumbles, unaware of and apathetic to the girl's movements. It jerks; it trembles; it careens fruitlessly into the window, feeling the cold air whispering through the pores of the glass but unable to follow it out for its frailty and ignorance; it creeps along in jolting increments and plans one final attempt. The rain drums against the window-pane in expectation. The blue-bottle stills itself one last time.
The girl's hand turns on the wardrobe door. Deep inside, a rush of freezing air from a long-forgotten winter impatiently shoves past the fur coats aside and leaps out into the space, cutting short the last breath of the dying insect. Curious, the girl shuts the door and steps further in.
The blue-bottle sheds its spirit into the hush of the spare room.