Pegasus2002

Pigeons
Katie Davis
First Place, Prose
Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College

She was lying on the sofa wrapped in her glossy fur coat that looked hideously blue in the light radiating from the television set. She sighed as Bob Barker’s face contorted into another plastic grin and a contestant won a convertible. If only someone would take her for a ride in a convertible. She would hang out the window just to feel the breeze on her face as the scenery blurred together in a swirl of sky, road, and tree. Maybe she would ride out to the country, shed her coat and run around like a little girl and drink from a murmuring stream when she was thirsty.
        Outside, pigeons gathered on the windowsill. Charlie called them rats with wings, but she always admired their fearlessness. It they were hungry, they’d hop right up to the smelly old man on the park bench. He’d toss them some stale bread crumbs, they’d gobble them up like they were gourmet dishes from Emeril himself, and fly away full and satisfied. Yet whenever she and Charlie walked past the old man, she could feel the hair on the back of her neck rise as she caught his scent. Even though Charlie laughed at her, she’d always trusted her nose.
        She heard footsteps outside the door and Charlie struggling with the lock. She stretched, got up from the sofa, and tried to make herself look presentable. Through the years they had been together, she had learned not to be caught on the sofa when Charlie walked in. He was always so high strung, he hated to catch her relaxing after he worked all day. With a final muttered curse, the lock turned, and the door creaked open as Charlie walked in the door.
        Nice job you did cleaning the house. Did you make dinner yet, my prima Donna? Charlie joked as he set his loose change on the coffee table. The stove had been broken for the past eight months.
        Her big brown eyes looked blankly at his face. He left her here all day and forbade her to go outside without him. He claimed he was worried that something might happen to her. Of course she wasn’t going to assist around the house.
        Charlie shuffled into the kitchen. The distance between them grew farther as he yelled, “Yeah, so, I told you my parents are coming tomorrow, right? And you know how they feel about you living with me.” She groaned. She wanted to climb under the sofa, but she couldn’t fit.
        I’m going to have to take you out to Mark’s tonight so I can clean up a bit. You can stay there until my parents leave, okay?” She was not going to answer him. Very rarely did they ever speak to each other. It was as if there was a wall built between them, guarded by his parents, hardened by her daily isolation, and fortified by the ever-present babble of the television. Charlie emerged from the kitchen, beer in one hand, microwave dinner in the other, and took his usual place on the sofa. She stared at him as he sat captivated in front of the idiot box, nuked food flying from his mouth as he laughed maniacally at reruns of Tom Green. It was as if she had evaporated or had never even existed. It was like this every night. She got up and stood in front of the television.
        Instantly, Charlie’s face transformed from drooling slob to a mad dog. “HEY!” Move it, lardass’” She gave him a plaintive look, and he threw the remote at her, It hit her in the stomach as she hurried away.
        “Dammit, why’d I throw that?” Charlie balanced the food on his jello belly as he struggled helplessly to reach the remote control with his leg. His face contorted in determination as he wiggled his toes to grasp it like an overweight primate in the zoo.
        From the bedroom, she heard a loud thump as Charlie fell off the sofa. She smiled to herself as his rampant cursing ensued, then settled on the bed and stared out the window. Tonight would be her final night in this most certain hell. She fell asleep, her body twitching with her dreams of escape. It was not long before her gentle sleep was disturbed by the clatter of keys and Charlie’s impatient whistle. “Come on, come on, darling; we only have thirty minutes to get you to Mark’s before Fear Factor comes on. Move it!”
        He gathered her things, and she led him outside. She glanced inward at her former prison as Charlie closed the door. The room was still illuminated with the sickly glow of an evening sitcom. This opportunity was the only stale bread Charlie would ever throw her. She could get in the car with her prison warden, or she could run. He struggled with the lock, his back turned to her. Unleashed, she took off.
        Tires screamed in resistance. A horn flooded the evening with its distressed moan. Charlie turned around, but moved slowly, like a spoon through molasses. His dog had been hit by a car. Above, pigeons cooed.