My Night Owl

Night Owl

Most nights I could feel her out there. When the insomnia was real bad, I’d just sit in that worn chair by the window. Watching. Waiting. Trying to catch a glimpse of her. I rarely saw anything more than her eyes reflecting the stars and moon. Sometimes, I’d here a flutter of wings and know she was out there. In the darkness that existed in my past, she had been the one thing that kept me alive.

That first time I saw her was one of the worst days of my life. Beaten down and broken, the duct tape, gum, and yarn holding me together were wearing thin. I’d been fired that morning because my boss said I wasn’t ‘cheery’ enough. Bastard. Two days before, I’d lost my best friend. Her husband had gotten drunk and beat her to death. Tomorrow was her funeral. My boss knew this and still fired me. Again, bastard.

After my dreary morning of Mr Leary firing me, I’d spent the day roaming. I would say I walked a hundred miles, but I know that’s just how it feels. Really I just went really, really slow on my normal walk home. Now it’s night. The anxiety of sleep cresting over me in waves even though bed was a few hours away still. I’m standing in my kitchen slowly stirring the canned tomato soup I’m trying to pass off as dinner. I don’t notice I’m crying until the tears start to land in the slowly warming soup. They make me angry, the tears. They remind me of what he used to say when I’d cry as a child, ‘the world is gonna eat you up and spit you out, you’re nothing but a pit stain in this place, if you can’t shut up and dry up you’re worthless’. I’m so angry I grab the small pot’s handle and fling it across the room. Soup splatters the wall and slowly starts to drip toward the floor. I could care less.

Usually, this is the point where I’d have to call Pen. She was the only one that ever helped me when the darkness threatened to drown me. But she’s gone. Beaten to death in a drunken rage by the person she loved most.

Now I’m alone. Sitting on the floor. Back against the cabinets. Forest spread in front of me. Visible through the sliding glass doors. I have a small paring knife clutched in one hand. Usually, razor blades are my choice of steel but today I’m too exhausted to make the effort to get one.

I’m ready to end it. To make the cut deep enough that this pain, heartache, anxiety, weight on my soul is gone. I press the tip of the blade to my arm. A drop of blood is welling where the knife splits skin. Then movement outside the door distracts me. The largest barn owl I’ve ever seen is just sitting at my door watching me. Their eyes locked with me in their sights. It was insane enough I didn’t realize the blade slipped and the knife is gone. Only a welt of blood on my arm. The owl has my full attention.

I move and its eyes follow me. So I stand and slowly walk to the door. ‘What do you want,’ I whisper.

‘For you to live,’ is what I hear. Then I scream and run to my room.

‘Don’t be scared jelly belly,’ comes the strange voice again. It gives me pause as I’m trying to use my bed as a blockade to the window. Then there’s the sound of wings, a thump, and the owl is now outside my bedroom window.

I walk towards the window. No longer scared. For you see, the only person in the entire world that called me Jelly Belly was Pen.

‘Is it you?’ I whisper.

I swear the owl smiles. ‘Apparently there’s a lot more to the world then we thought.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. I saw myself. I wasn’t breathing. It felt like I was hovering over my body and then I was on a path leading in two directions. One a bright, beautiful thing. The other was dark, almost scary. But I could hear you. Your pain. You needed help. So I followed the dark path and woke up like this in a tree. And I’ve just been watching you all day.’

I didn’t know what to say. I was amazed. In awe. And Pen, as always, was calm. I didn’t experience the horrific panic attacks that plagued my existence that night. I sat by that window and talked with Pen until the sun came up. With the sun streaming in, I was actually able to sleep. I think the first time in the fifteen years since he fist stalked me. It was weird.

The next night Pen came to the window again. It turned into an everyday thing. Eventually I found another job. I would work in the afternoon, talk with Pen all night, and sleep in the morning sun.

I stopped seeing Pen every night once I met David. The final time I got to spend all night with her was the day before my daughter was born. She told me her job was done. I was not only alive but I was now living. I cried like the day she died all over. But this time, David held me and comforted me. The tears stopped when Penny began kicking sense into me from the inside. I would mourn my nights with Pen being over but as I looked up at David, I realized she was right. For the first time in my thirty years, I was living.

Today my life isn’t perfect. I still have bouts of insomnia, but the fear of the night is gone. Penny is now seven and has a little sister. They both will have a little brother in a few weeks. Now I only catch glimpses of Pen when my mind starts to betray me or sleep eludes me. It’s not much, but just knowing she’s out there, that she came back to save me, is more than enough.