No going back now.
9Dead Bird
Franco was absolutely right. The second half of my orientationisboring. I fight a sudden wave of drowsiness as I refocus on Professor Ahmed. We’ve discussed my class schedule, course curriculums, as well as campus rules and restrictions. Now, she’s going over the ins and outs of the student handbook, but to be honest, I couldn’t care less. I breathe a sigh of relief when a bell rings from somewhere within the bowels of the building, signaling the end of the hour and, hopefully, the end of my orientation.
“Well, that should cover the gist of it,” Professor Ahmed says. “Any questions?”
“Nope,” I reply as I stuff my orientation packet into my bag. “Thanks.”
I dash from the room and head for the exit. The sun blinds me for a moment when I step outside. I squint while taking in my surroundings, trying to orient myself. My dorm should be a ten-minute walk from here, to the east I think, but I consult the campus map in my bag before heading that way.
Small clumps of students pass me by as I walk. The first pair are dressed in all black, their respective hair dyed every color of the rainbow. Their silver face piercings glint in the afternoon sun.Next, a cluster of preppy kids dressed in expensive-looking clothes walk by with freshly highlighted roots, manicured eyebrows, and heavily glossed lips. Then, a group of students that look more like me trot past: hair loose and natural, skin recently sunburnt, Target-brand wardrobes with worn-in sneakers.
They’re each quirky and unique, individual in their style, clothes and mannerisms. The sight brings a smile to my face.
On a narrow strip of sidewalk between two buildings, I pass a wall with a large mural painted right onto the brick. I only give it a fleeting glance, so it takes my brain a second to register the image. But when it does, I do a double take, mouth falling open.
I’ve seen this mural before. On Phantom’s social media accounts. Holy shit. Why is this here?
I wait for another group of students to pass by before stepping up to the mural. This painting has always been one of my favorites of theirs. A half-decayed bird in mid-flight, the feathers painted in striking silver and the bones black as night, with one eye blue and the other green. It’s strange and disturbing... and undeniably moving. It makes me feel an emotion I’m all too familiar with:Burnout.
The bird in the painting has given everything it has to give, and then some—parts of its own body—only for it to continue to fly. Its dual-toned eyes are wary. It has, quite literally, nothing left to give, yet it does so anyway. Giving and giving and giving until there’s nothing left.
My eyes well with hot tears at the sight of it here, before me, in real life. Not on a screen or in my dreams.
A girl giggles behind me, drawing me from my stupor. I wipe at my eyes, embarrassment coaxing cold sweat from the skin at the base of my spine, but thankfully, a brief glance reveals that she’s laughing at a friend and not at me.
When I’m alone on the sidewalk again, I reach out a tentativehand. The paint is old, significantly faded compared to the photo I’d become so familiar with, as if the painting’s been here for months, if notyears.
Does that mean Phantom went here? Or goes here? Or perhaps they painted this while visiting a friend?I have to find out.
Taking one final look at the painting, I kiss my fingertips before pressing them to the bird’s gaping chest, in the place the heart should be.I’ll be back, I promise.
While continuing my trek back to the dorm, my mind buzzes with thoughts of Phantom. But when I get there, I notice the door to my room is slightly ajar. I thrust it open to find my new roommate pushing one of my boxes into a corner. And there’s another person in the room too. A blonde-haired young woman with enviably long legs lounging onmybed.
“Um, hi,” I say, stepping into the room.
“Hi,” the woman on my bed says with a bright, friendly smile.
My roommate gives me a sarcastic wave but says nothing.
“I’m Maeve. Who are you?” I ask the woman, since she seems to be the only semi-friendly person in the room at the moment.
“I’m Emmy. Emmy Archibald. Don’t worry about remembering my name, it’ll be plastered everywhere soon enough,” she replies breezily, finally dismounting my bed. She’s so tall, probably close to six feet.
“Uh, right. Nice to meet you. And, uh—you are?” I ask hesitantly, aiming the question at my roommate.
“Glade!” Emmy chastises in a near shriek. “You haven’t told your new roomie your name yet? You’re such a bitch.”
My roommate rolls her eyes before responding monotonously, “Iris Glade.” She turns to Emmy and asks, “Happy now?”
Emmy shakes her head. “Not even close.”
“So, are you both sophomores?” I ask, gaining confidence in light of their easy banter.
“Yep,” Emmy answers primly. “I’m a painter, and Iris is a sculptor.”
“Cool, I’m a painter too.”
