The open door. Freedom.

I lunge at the nearest pigeon. Pick it up. I’ve never held a bird before. The body feels firm but warm, with the benefit of feathers.

I hold it at arm’s length and duck my head as I emerge from the cage. I lift it towards the sky, open my hands.

Nothing happens.

The bird squats on the flat of my palms, looking at me. His eyes are unblinking and in their reflection I see myself; my white face and my worried eyes and my open mouth, as if I’m about to say something.

I need to say something.

“Fly away,” I tell the bird. “You’re free now.” I stretch my hands further. As far as they will reach. The sky is clear. Smugly serene. I want to grab it, tear it down, rip it up. I want it to rain. To lash. I want there to be wind. A gale force, to twist and bend the branches of the fig trees and the lovingly tended rose bushes that stand so still in their neat little rows, unhindered by weeds. Unhindered by life.

“GO!” I roar at the bird.

Still, he sits in my hands, untroubled by my rage or my demands. I lower my hands and lift them, raising the bird towards that smug sky again, this time letting my hands part so he has no choice but to spread his wings and take flight. I hold my breath as I watch him go, the span of his wings wider than his small body suggests.

He flies to the nearest branch of the nearest tree and perches there, cocking his head as he studies me.

I run at the bird. I think I shout. The sound is guttural. Almost a wail. I wheel around, but no lights snap on inside the house. Behind me, the pigeons in their cage coo gently.

I race back inside the cage, flapping my arms wildly about, trying to get them to move, to leave their cage, to fly away. They shuffle this way and that, avoiding my flailing limbs. Not one of them takes their leave or even glances at the open door.

After a while, I stop.

I step out of the cage, close the door, bolt it. The birds go back to sleep. I lie on the grass, stare at the sky and the moon and the stars and try not to think about anything. Try to breathe the way I used to breathe. In and out, like a normal person. Like the normal person I was before I began this harebrained odyssey.

Slowly, slowly, my breath subsides, becomes manageable. I stop shaking. My heart stops pounding. Now, I can feel the cool damp of the grass through the thin fabric of my top. Now, I can smell the lavender and the roses and the honeysuckle. In the tree, the pigeon gives me one last look before spreading his wings and taking to the sky. I hold my breath as I watch him, his glide so graceful and silent. He turns and swoops, landing beside the locked door of the cage. He pecks at the bars with his sturdy little beak.