House of Aves

Chapter 1

Obry

Sometimes I dream so vividly that I feel like I’m there. The feel of the grass under my bare feet. A warm breeze brushing my hair back and running fingers over my face. Fresh grass clippings scent the air. I hear laughter, though when I open my eyes, I don’t see anyone. Just a beautiful day in a wide-open field. No fences. No buildings.

And then I wake up. The dreams never linger to the point where I feel like they’re real after I’m awake. I know my environment. The only place I’ve been since I was eight.

The walls were a cool gray. My twin mattress and box spring lay on the floor. A hemp-colored rug stretched between the walls. There’s an open bookshelf with random items on it. Some books and other small things, like a rubik’s cube and a puzzle. A single chair was next to it and a small round table by my bed.

There was a single small window that looked out to the backyard. Overlooking lush gardens, a large deck, and a sunken pool. The window was barred, of course.

My closet held a modest amount of clothing, enough to get me through a week. Seven pairs of pants, sets of socks, shirts, underwear. One pair of shoes that was brand new since I never left the house.

The bathroom held even less. One set of towels that was replaced every third day. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Face wash, hand soap. The mirror over the sink was no larger than a hand mirror.

I didn’t want to open my eyes when the dream faded to find myself still trapped within my room. A prisoner in the house I haven’t left in almost twenty years. Opening my eyes would remind me that my dream was never reachable. This was my life. I’d die here.

The click at my door said that my mother was outside. As if I were six, she came in to wake me up every morning. I didn’t move. Maybe I should pretend to be sick.

The door opened and the light from the hall poured in. “Obry,” my mother said in that soft, somewhat silly voice a parent might use on a toddler. “Good morning, sunshine.”

When I didn’t respond, she came closer to the bed. I could feel her standing over me. Her fingers brushed through my hair, moving it from my face. “Open those beautiful eyes, sunshine.”

Don’t misunderstand. My parents aren’t horrible people. At least, I don’t think they started out that way, nor is that their intention.

“Come on, sweetie. It’s time to get up.”

I sighed, blinking my eyes several times to let them adjust to the light. She smiled down at me, in the same fashion as she spoke. As if I were a six-year-old. Maybe that’s actually what she saw.

“Good morning, honey. How did you sleep? Are you feeling okay?”

I nodded, not answering her otherwise.

“How about some breakfast?”

Nodding again, my mother smiled brightly and left the room. The door clicked locked from the outside once more. She never forgot to lock the door. Not even when she’d only be gone thirty seconds. There’d been too many times that I’d tried to leave.

If I’d have been less desperate when I was younger, I’d have thought it through. Earned my mother’s trust so that she’d forget to lock my door. Earn her trust so that I could move through the house freely. My chances of successfully running would have been greater.

I glanced at the window. Except that they really wouldn’t be greater. I haven’t been out of the house except for yearly medical appointments since I was eight. My best bet now was to wait for my parents to get old and frail so that I can overpower them and force my release.

Given the opportunity now, I wouldn’t know where to go. Who to go to. Besides, I was an adult, technically speaking. Who was going to believe me? Believe that I’ve been trapped in this house for nearly two decades.

I didn’t even believe me half the time. But I assumed that was from lack of stimulation. The world tended to move by drowsily. Like the clouds.

My mother returned with a tray. A large plate of eggs, sausage, toast, and orange juice. Over her shoulder hung my morning gallon of water in a metal, double lined water bottle. With little better to do, I read every label. And the fine print on the bottom of the bottle told me that the double lining was to keep liquid cold or hot for hours.

“Here you go, sweetie. Is your tablet charged? I loaded a few more books for you. And there’s a new game, too.”

I glanced towards the bookcase where my tablet sat. Nodding, I forced myself to sit up. “Thanks,” I said, my voice quiet.

She pet me on my shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “I’ve already read the books, honey. We can discuss them later if you want to.”

I didn’t even try to pretend anymore. Once, I did. Once, when I thought I might convince her that I could handle the outside world. That she didn’t need to keep me locked away. I wasn’t going to die like my brother and sister.

That was the whole driving force behind this. When I was six, my older brother died. He’d gotten caught up in drugs. Became friends with the wrong kinds of people at school. He overdosed at sixteen.

The death had hit my parents hard. I didn’t understand what they were saying but they were constantly going on about how they failed him. How they should have been better parents.

That left my sister and I. My sister, Denise, who was our brother James’ twin. My sister, who, two years later, was raped and then murdered. It destroyed my parents. For weeks, months, they did little else but sob and beg the world to reverse what had happened.

One morning, I woke up to a new way of life. They were going to homeschool me until they felt that I was equipped enough to brave the dangers of the world. The first time I tried to leave the house, even just for the yard, I found a lock on my bedroom door and my window barred.

It only got worse. I had no human contact. No interaction. I attended all schooling online. And with nothing better to do, I excelled in my studies. I now had a dual major undergraduate degree and a graduate degree. All of which I accomplished with my mother or father sitting over my shoulder to monitor my computer use, my interactions, and what I wrote within my assignments.

I stopped attending school after that since it was clear that no matter what kind of education I completed, my parents had no intention of ever letting me out of the house. The world is too dark. Too dangerous. There are nasty people in the world. Monsters.

Why would I ever want to leave the safety of my home?

Because I was suffocating.

Sighing, I dropped from my bed to the floor and picked away at my food. I rarely ate the entire plate. Expending little energy meant I needed very little caloric input. Just enough to live.

But I’d found what my parents deemed acceptable as far as meals went. I’d fallen into such a depression when I was just getting into my teenage years that I’d stopped eating. That led to them force feeding me.

From that moment on, I made sure that I ate enough to satisfy them that I wasn’t starving myself. And I wasn’t. Even at thirteen, that hadn’t been a goal of mine. I didn't have a goal at all. I’d just lost the will to get out of bed.

I also knew at what time my mother would be back to pick up my tray and I always made sure I was in the bathroom at that time. I waited there until I heard the door open and close before I reentered my room.

A few years ago, I found that walking across the room had left me short winded. I wasn’t overweight. Not really. Maybe a little heavier than I should be. But primarily, my issue was lack of muscle use. I was so weak that walking ten feet would leave me panting.

Since then, I've made it my point to work my muscles. Not that I had a guide in this. My internet access was incredibly crippled. It was harsher than a child lock as far as I was concerned. So I had no guidance when trying to figure out how to get stronger.

My method was simple. Wherever I wanted to focus, I had to find movements that made those muscles burn. I was pretty sure I could run pretty well at this point, but I didn’t know what was involved with that. The last time I physically ran was when I was eight.

After spending a lot of the morning going through random motions to perform the exercises I was interested in, I took a shower and then brought my tablet to my bed to see what my mother had deemed worthy of reading.

I’d come to the conclusion that the only things she allowed me were as bland as she could find. It was never a story, but something mildly educational. About a different country or culture or religion. I had a few on geography and some on languages.

I read them because what else was I going to do but stare out my window or sleep? Though I didn’t read them right away. I browsed through the three new ones before checking out the game.

They were always educational or mentally stimulating. One of those apps that promised to keep you mentally agile. You know, so you don’t fade away into a vegetable. Which I thought was rather ironic because what kind of life am I leading here? I’m not alive. I’m breathing. I’m existing. It’s not the same thing as living.

However, the games generally kept me entertained for a while, so I usually let the day go by as I went through them. I enjoyed the ones where I was challenged with letters or puzzles. This one was a variety, so I spent the rest of the morning hours lost in it.

My tablet gave the warning flash that the battery needed to be charged at the same moment my door clicked unlocked. I crossed the room to plug the tablet in and turned to find my mother with the afternoon tray of lunch. It usually consisted of a sandwich, soup, and fruit. Though it was usually different daily.

Part of me thought my mother went all out to make sure my meals were good and diverse. I never ate the same things two days in a row. I didn’t even eat the same cultural food for more than three consecutive days.

I’d gathered over the years that my mother stayed home, and my father worked, which explained why he only came around in the evenings. I couldn’t remember if it had always been this way. When my siblings were alive, did my mother work? I’d always come home right after school and she was there, so if she did, it was while we were out.

But then, I remember that there were days when it was just Denise and I at home and my mother would arrive sometime later. Those years were foggy. All my memories were dull and boring and not something I spent a lot of time reminiscing about since my childhood was nothing more than a monotonous cycle once my siblings died.

“How’s the game?” my mother asked, setting the tray on my bed, and taking a seat in the chair.

Once, my gaze used to dart to the door. It wasn’t open but since it only locked from the outside, I knew it was unlocked. But there was no point in looking at the door. I’d given up that hope a long time ago.

“Fine,” I said. “It needs some work. It’s laggy. But the games are okay.”

My mother sighed, frowning. “It’s so hard finding decent games. There are so many violent ones out there or mindless ones that serve no purpose.”

“I think the purpose is mindless, mom. You don’t always have to think. A game is also an escape.” And I desperately needed an escape.

I was surprised when her expression turned thoughtful. She smiled at me. “That’s a good point. I’ll take another look at the game store.”

I nodded, not caring. Even if she’d purchased a violent game, it’s not like it was going to help me in the least. Not trapped in this room.

“What do you think of the books?”

I shrugged. “They’re like every other one I have,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

She nodded, her shoulders sagging. I wasn’t under the impression that my mother regarded me as her prisoner. I knew for certain that she didn’t think of me as an adult, but she wasn’t really trying to keep me locked away.

After losing two kids, she wanted to guarantee that I lived. That I didn’t do something to accidentally take my life, nor somehow get caught up in incidents where I was harmed and someone else took my life.

It was all about safety. Every time I tried to run away or break out, my mother would become hysterical, crying about how I always had to be safe. I had to stay here so that they could protect me. I had to stay in my room where I was best protected.

In all that, I think my mother had no idea that I was no longer eight years old. It wasn’t even that she didn’t look at me as an adult. She still saw a helpless child.

“Tomorrow is your physical,” she said. “We’re seeing a new doctor in the practice since yours has moved on. Dr. Katherine Waylin. I spoke to her a few times, and she seems perfectly wonderful.”

I nodded. “In the morning?”

She nodded. “Yes. On the way home, we’ll stop through a drive through for a treat,” she said, grinning.

See? She still thinks I’m a child.

The corner of my mouth lifted in what was probably meant to be a smile. I didn’t feel it. There wasn’t anything real about it. It was a mindless motion. Something that had once been intended to placate my mother. To make her think I wasn’t miserable.

Maybe I wasn’t miserable. Who knew? I wasn’t alive enough to know the difference. All I was doing was breathing. I took another bite of my sandwich and stared blankly at the orange slices on my tray.