My Bird

“A million dreams are black and white. It makes my brain black and blue. It plagues me.”

It’s an old quote. Not literal of course. I personally dream in color, and the human brain is normally a greyish white. I did see a brain in that condition once and it deeply scarred me. That, however, is a completely rambling and currently unrelated topic.

There it is again. The words “deeply scarred”. Why use them? I suppose it’s simply just a common phrase that weaseled itself into our metaphorical speech, but why? Why do we use such untruthful speech to explain truthful events and ideas?

Unimportant. Perception!

It’s an interesting thing, perception. I’ve always been able to perceive things differently than my peers. I’m indifferent to the ability. I personally don’t mind the way my brain stores, processes and compartmentalizes stimuli. It’s simply my way of life and I’ve never known anything different.

I’m Tomithy, so you know. Tomithy Cole Ryan. I’ve always loved my name. It’s odd, but when I hear it spoken, it makes me feel connected to something greater. Not that that actually happens often. Not anymore at least. I couldn’t tell you what it took to get me to this point. I have an eidetic memory, an off the charts IQ, and yet I still couldn’t pinpoint for you exactly what went wrong.

I go by Ryan now. Ryan James Alexander. Oh right, and I’m also tied to a chair, in a warehouse… in Queens. They couldn’t even have gotten me a desk chair. Apparently my discomfort is valued over sturdiness.

“Mr. Alexander”, A Russian voice drawls, feigning power I suspect.

“At your service detective… or do you prefer ‘director’?”

“Very funny Mr. Alexander. Unfortunately for you, it stopped being funny when you… screwed over my boss.”

“Do you mean your boss who invested 10,000 dollar in the illegal bombing operation of a third world capital? I merely prevented him from doing it again and temporarily at that. We’re both aware that 20 grand doesn’t make a dent in your boss’s capital or… is dementia setting in early for you, director.”

His strikingly French, baby-faced goons stand on either side of a table a few meters in front of me. Mr. Fyodorovich or Detective Director of Security at Areston’s Tech and Research Industries places down a thin stack of papers on said table. He glares at the blonde one on my right when he flinches at the metal on metal clink from the binder clip.

“Do you keep a manifesto Mr. Alexander? Maybe in a little black book?” He smiles. “Mine’s Moleskine.”

“Well it’s nice to know where you keep your secrets.” He chuckles.

“As if you’ll ever find it. I do have to ask… what exactly is your end goal here? Perhaps you simply have a death wish.”

“Maybe I do all mystical russki. Oh, maybe I do.”

Long story short, that ordeal ended with me bashing my lovely oak chair over Fyodorovich’s fat head. The whole ordeal was utterly useless if you ask me. I know something is wrong. 25 minutes later and I’m back on the street after handling some business, pickpocketing some non-local richfoke for $180. You know, a bus to Manhattan costs money, two dozen chocolate glazed donuts aside.

Am I insane? Possibly. Being smart is two sides of a coin. I have morals, I do. They can bend, but with so little to keep me grounded recently, the line is blurred to begin with. I can feel someone watching me on the way to our current hotel room. We move every few days but people still find us occasionally. I look in the top reflections of the phones in front of me.

An African American man just over 6’; heavy build; 4th row back in the opposite aisle seat. He watches like a cop. He obviously spent some time in military boot camp from his posture but never served. There’s no doubt that he plays by the rules, but got into trouble as a kid. He ended up getting a bachelor's that he isn’t happy with. I’d bet he’s FBI. Fyodorovich or, most likely, his boss is setting me up in return for a deal. Wonderful.

I choke down the last seven donuts I have before getting off a stop early. Quickly dumping the boxes, I keep a calm face, circling the block once. It puts the FBI folk on edge. They think I’m about to do something reckless. Ha! If the government knew even a fraction… if anyone knew anything… nevermind, it would end badly.

There are five people watching me on the ground and two snipers. They're all within a three block radius and less than 20 stories up. I pick an alleyway and cross the street to it. I slip in silently. I stand there on the cement for a moment calculating, surrounded by trash, false brick and vomit. I know the people are wondering what I’m waiting for or who I’m waiting for.

It’s them.

I look straight at one of the watchers as they walk by. That’ll get them moving. In about seven seconds 14 people swarm the alley from both directions and a side door. Within milliseconds, I push myself off from the top of a dumpster hard and grab onto the bottom of a third story fire escape. I force my legs up and use the momentum to jam each of my feet diagonally in between the rusty vertical bars. Using the leverage I right myself and fall on all fours beyond the railing.

This is a good place to be because the metal, although flimsy is decent protection from bullets. Agents start ascending the stairs inside to try and outracing me to the top, but I maneuver quickly. The fire escape doesn’t go beyond floor 15 so they probably think that I’ll stop there, but I start scaling the windows. My calloused hands grasp at the differing material.

Weapons fire quickly dies down and the snipers can’t get a shot. By the time the agents reach the roof I’m two blocks away in the wrong direction, just to circle back and regret leaving you alone.

The reason I tell you this story out of all the stories in my life, is because it is not a story… at least not a good one. As I stated, the things I know, my past, the things I hear and see… I see it all. It’s not what you think either. This version of my life, however chaotic, unrealistic and nonsensical, is true and the best way for me to be remembered. This is my way of showing you who I am while still protecting you from the unimaginable.

Furthermore, the reason that I have written in first person until this point is because I have been cursed to remember my life, however dark perfectly until the day I pass.

Attached are videos recorded by your aunt of your mother and I before you were born. I regret to say that it was the only time in my life that I felt I could support a family without endangering them constantly, and even then…

I want you to know that I was never a good person despite what the tapes may tell you. Yes, I am capable of love. I love you. I loved your mother and mine. I’m just too broken. That is why I leave you here, with some of the only people I believe I can trust. They, unlike I, could pry themselves away from the dangers of the profession we once shared.

I ask of you only a handful of things my bird.

1. Ask questions. Try to understand the world but know that that understanding can do more harm than good. My mistake was to accept a morphed look towards reality at a young age.

2. Between me and your mother, you are bound to be smart. Use it to your advantage.

3. Never let anyone degrade one, 23 months old and you are already just as perfect as your mother.

4. Never fall in too deep. You will struggle with this one. My world is the way it is because I failed to see the danger and once I did, I could not separate myself from it and instead separated from myself.

I will never forgive myself for giving you up my bird but I hope someday you may forgive me. I love you my bird, my daughter...

-Tomithy