“Mama said the feathers are my psychosis,” Ava says. Her gaze drifts away from me, down toward the red and blue dancing lights. I edge closer along the ledge. “Your ambulance looks like a toy from up here.” She picks at scabs covering her arms, with blood-encrusted fingernails.
“Those wounds look like they hurt,” I say. “I’ve got some antiseptic inside, some gauze. We could fix you right up.”
“These aren’t wounds.” Her finger rubs little circles in the blood. “You know, I can feel them. The quills. They’re poking just under my skin.” Delusions.
“Isn’t that something!” I say. “Can I feel?” I reach. She dodges, flinging her arm out of my grasp, past my face, and for a second, I think I see them, tiny white nubs peeking out of her wounds.
“You’re trying to trick me!” She inches away. “You want to grab me and drag me back inside. But I am not a suicide.” Wind buffets us. I press myself against the building, fingertips clinging to tiny crevices in the brick wall. Ava closes her eyes, relishing the gust. She sways and lifts onto her toes, tittering. “My bones are hollowing. See? That breeze almost carried me off!” Her eyes flick back to mine. Were they always black? “You have to understand, Mama wants to cage me. But I am not going back to that little room. She thinks if she keeps me there, shoves fistfuls of pills down my throat, I’ll be normal. I am not normal. I am better than normal.”
These are last words. God dammit, I can’t handle losing another one.
“Ava darling, let’s go inside where it’s safe. We can talk about all of—” She stretches her body as if she just waking up from a long nap, arms splayed, joints popping and snapping. All it would take is another gust of wind to knock her off. “Jesus, Ava. Stop!” My yell, or maybe the desperation in it, startles her. She rocks back on her heels and cocks her head toward me, studying my face.
“You’re scared.”
“For you. Yes.” I say. “You’re not a bird, baby.”
“People are funny. They always react so differently to me. Mama tries to change me. You try to trick me. And you both think you’re doing this for me, but you’re doing it for you. Mama force feeds me pills so I won’t embarrass her. And you—you don’t want to be afraid anymore.” She looks out to the dark city. The lights play across her face, making her features look pointed. “Don’t be scared. This is where I’m supposed to be, what I’m supposed to become.” I inch closer.
“Ava, give me your hand.” I reach for her, but she doesn’t reach back. Instead, she gives me a sad smile. I feel the pity behind it.
“I am not a suicide,” she says. “This isn’t falling. This is freedom.” She spreads her arms. “This is flight.”
She leaps… and soars.
Image by André Rau from Pixabay – A white gull with wings spread and a screaming beak.
literally stories 
Tammy
This is a perfect example of what a flash should be: a quick burst of light that sticks with you. The end is hopeful, although open.
Leila
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A powerful flash piece to end the week with – compelling and awful and ambiguous. Very nicely done!
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A really hard hitting short piece. This has the unlikely effect of actually minimsing the sadness of suicide because we know, absolutely, that, even though it may be delusion the last thoughts were of joy. Really well done – thank you – dd
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Ava’s bird-like being is so utterly convincing. Resoundingly powerful piece – & weighty in its impact.
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Tammy
Anton Chekhov said art should ask questions, not answer them. He then went on to develop the open ending for the modern short story, one of its most profound and lasting developments and something for which Chekhov was roundly booed and laughed at in his own time (by many). Your story does a GREAT job of using the open ending technique! The ending of “Fledgling” could mean one thing or many things or maybe something else. Either way, it leaves the reader with a question, a possibility, an excursion, even a window into another invisible realm we don’t know about even though it’s most certainly there? Someone who appears to be among the saddest of the sad among the mentally ill may actually be a goddess of sorts? All the categories we try to place people in so we can understand them better and reduce our own confusion and fear are fake and fictional in a bad way? All of us can fly, we just don’t know it? Or, something that appears “ugly” on the surface is actually beautiful underneath? Or, death is a release? The ending might mean any of these, all of these, or maybe something else. The reader ends up second-guessing one’s self, but not because the story is undeveloped, instead because it’s intriguing. This kind of story-telling is for the questers and the seekers among us, because the easy answers (offered by greedy and “ambitious” politicians for example) ARE ALWAYS A LIE, an over-simplification in the bad sense. Great job!
Dale
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Most of those with psychosis who do suicide have command hallucinations telling them they can fly, or that if they do they’ll save the world. I’ve talked to those who survived. Soaring at the end is an interesting description. As someone who knows the aftermath, it’s what I would describe as a “Soar mess.” I think of the effects on the friend, also. That’s a big hidden part of the story, and the friend’s reactions and attempts to save the jumper are the best part of this one.
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Tammy
I guess whether it’s delusion and psychosis or freedom and flight depend on which side of the feathers you are on. A perfect Flash moment out of time. I suppose what’s next is up to us. Or Ava.
I was thoroughly on the ledge with them. — Gerry
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Diane
The image of the Gull is wonderful, but elusive. I see it in abstract and resembles many things, like a row of eye lashes. Unique and interesting
Leila
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Yes Diane! The gull is beautiful! Thank you so much for adding it to this story!
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You are welcome – it is rather lovely isn’t it.
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Thank you – I admit I was very taken with it.
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An unusual, but effective and atmospheric piece this one. It made me think of The Vegetarian by Han Kang which also deals with elements of dysmorphia and identity.
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