Charlie has been the only person in my life for as long as I can remember; my only companion apart from one attempt at a pet. I can remember him walking though the front door when I was no older than six , a colossal grin stretched across his face, his great warm hangs cupped together with a carefully intensity.
"Bellaaaaaa" He had sung.
"Daddy!" I remember squeaking as I chirpily ran to him, thrilled he was finally home. I was puzzled at his unusual pose as I drew nearer to him, raising my small eyebrow in questioning him. He let out a booming laugh.
"I got you something Bells, look." He brought his enclosed hands to me, and I peered over them, curious to see what he held with such vigilance and care. He opened them at an unbearable slow pace, barley parting them, to disclose a handsome little bird. A smile took over my face and I eagerly held out my small child hands. "He's all your Bells; I thought you might enjoy a little friend to give you some company, you know, since I'm not always home." I was elated. I spent all my time with the petite cerulean bird, watching astonished as he flew circles around my room, longing to do the same thing. I can't say how many endless times he flew straight into my transparent window, ignorant of the glass obstruction that blocked his passage. I had him for months, until I realized what I was doing. And so I did the only thing I could think to do. I opened the window for him. He flew out with a delight filled chirp and I smiled sadly as a few needed tears escaped my big eyes. Charlie silently understood what I had done and I why I had done it. That's what I like about Charlie: I don't have to say a word, he always just understands.
Needless to say I never fostered anymore pets. But it was okay. Charlie was all I could ever ask for. He played Barbie and make-believe, gave horseback rides and cradled me when it was storming and I was afraid. He played doctor when I broke my arm, and read books to me before bed. He cooked and helped me with homework; he sat in silence with me just looking out the window, or watched in awe as I flew. He taught me everything I know.
One day, merely a year after my cherished bird friend was freed from my room, Charlie taught me how to fly. All the right feathers had grown in all the right places and I was eager to get off the ground. There was never any doubt I would be able to fly. I was modified for flight. My bones, well they're different: thinner, hollow. My lungs are similar to that of a bird and even my eyes are unusual, my vision is amplified, sheltered by a special translucent layer from the harsh winds. My father took me miles out in the woods, into a small grassy meadow with a solitary minute tree planted in the center. The twisted branches were low, and Charlie effortlessly lifted me up on top of one. It was like one of those moments when a parent sits within a swimming pool, holding their arms, a secure promise, out to their child who is positioned out of the pool on the edge, arms also extended. I stood on that branch, arms out, knees bent, desperate to unite with my fathers. My tiny wings at the time steadied themselves as I closed my eyes and held my breath. I pushed off the tree with all the might my small legs had, stretched my wings and, surprisingly, glided straight into my father's awaiting and devoted arms.
In due course the branches became higher and Charlie grew farther away, but I learned. My father taught me how to find my wings and after that I was inexorable. I flew around the house until my wings became too lengthy to do so, enjoying every moment of it, and constantly understanding my little birds need to flee the house.
I know: its short.
Im kinda having a writers block and lack of time combination, so sorry to all you who begged me to update.
This is not a top priority, just a fun thing I do when I get the chance. Life is to crazy. :P
So tell me if you have any ideas or suggestions :D