The Blue Jay’s Feather
A short dark story
Winter.
The day after Miriam left for Europe.
A blue jay looks for food on the cracked asphalt of the street; long rows of dark buildings; cadaverous trees; dilapidated fences. The city’s noises vanish in a moribund sun.
Miguel takes my hand and drags me into a tall building. A paraffin lamp burns on a round glass table. The light trickles on the walls like drips of wax at the feet of saints.
There is something familiar about this room; perhaps the vague scent of dried flowers, and the tear-like motif on the walls.
Footsteps. I can hear footsteps coming from upstairs. In a flash my heart goes into my throat.
I whisper.
“Miguel, let’s get out of here.”
He put his hand over my month.
Now there is laughter coming from upstairs. It is Jacques’ laughter. His and the laughter of a woman. She is not Miriam. It cannot be her. Miriam left yesterday. What am I thinking? The laughter cannot be Jacques’ either. He is dead. Jacques is dead.
The smell of the room invades my nostrils again. I know now. It is the smell of the dried flowers that Miriam put on Jacques’ coffin on the day of his funeral.
My mind freezes.
After an age, a terrifying scream tears the air apart. The room feels like a tomb. I pull away from Miguel’s arms, my soul dark, and the tightness in my throat stronger. In a mirror I replace my image with that of my grandmother.
I whisper in a voice that is not mine.
“Miguel, with you or without you I am getting out of here.”
He bites his upper lip.
“Clara, how many times have you asked me for the truth?”
“Right now, I do not need the truth. I want to get out of here. There are dead people in here, or ghosts, or whatever. I want out.”
The light from his eyes vanishes. He shivers.
“Clara. They are not dead. We are.”
The geometry of the space changes. Whirlpools of colors contort their translucent bodies under my eyes.
Through a little square cut from nothingness I see a lonely blue jay feather floating in the sky.
It smells paraffin and dried flowers.
