The Creative Wound

I wake up in the highest room in the castle, gasping for air. I clutch my throat, pain searing from my chest upwards. My hair is matted to my forehead and down my back in sweat. A bad dream. Something gnaws at my stomach–an intuition that I push away. 

I look over to a large open window, lavender blinds blowing into the room, a breeze that is slightly too cool. 

Another day. Heaviness sits within me, greeting me, Hello again, as I slide my feet over the bed and sink them into a soft, white rug. 

I blink. The white light of the morning shakes me fully awake. 

I walk over to the window and run my fingers through the delicate linen curtains. All this land father governs–patches of green and brown farms. Some farms are lined with forests, fewer each year. 

In a land where people fight and work hard for enough food, I should be ecstatic. My only responsibility is to put on a gown each morning–maybe peach, or light green, or a shiny brown–beautiful dresses made of silk and lined with gold thread. And stride through the large rooms of the castle. I am an exotic bird, prized for my translucent skin, my witty comments, my gentle way with the gardeners and servants. 

I am adored, but they adore a rigid case that surrounds me, molded to my body. Underneath that layer, I am pulsing with life. Feeling, hurting, raw. 

I am too alive, I have decided. If I am seen–the skin, blood, organs underneath the encasing–I will evaporate. Like droplets of water touching a hot stove, I will fizzle and burn, leaving no trace I was ever there. 

That is fine. Fine. 

My stomach bubbles with rage, or hunger, or both. My eyelids are heavy. 

I sit down at a carved brown desk next to the window inlaid with a single green gem. 

A large piece of parchment with rough edges lies on the desk. Blank. Next to it, a feather quill with a small pot of black ink. I stare at the ink, all color and light absorbed into its unyielding darkness. It threatens to swallow me too.

It would be so simple to pick up the quill, dip the ink, and drop the bleeding point to the paper. I imagine the fibers soaking in blackness.

And then what? I do it again, and again. 

To create what? Nothing. A few words. A shape. A bird on the paper, lines for a beak, perching on a branch. 

Then what? 

My elbows on the table, I push my palms to my forehead and my fingers into the roots of my hair, digging, scratching my scalp. 

I never draw, or paint, or write, because nothing will ever happen here. Tomorrow I will wake up again in this room in the tower of this castle and I will be praised for my beauty and grace. I will sit at the dining table, eating a Sunday roast that tastes like snow, melting on my tongue, candle lit chandeliers hanging low above my head. And inside, I will burn. 

I pick up the quill. I dip it into the ink and allow it to drip back into the reservoir. 

Suddenly, I crash it to the page, tearing the paper slightly. 

I remember doing things as a child. I remember standing in the forest creek, sliding on stones, dipping my toes into the icy water. 

I stare at the tear in the paper, dark ink bleeding through onto wood. A jagged laugh chokes out of me. “Hah!” I screech, throwing the quill onto the desk, splattering an ink trail in an irregular circle. 

I did something. And now, nothing. 

I sense a presence in the room. I lift my head and turn sharply to the right. A round bird with legs as dainty as twigs stands on the window ledge, looking at me. It tilts its tiny head and then opens its beak. 

I see the melody before it reaches my ears. A ribbon of emerald and orange, fall and spring colors all at once, moves through the air. 

A hair of a second later, the sound soaks into my body. I plunge into a pool filled with thick, gold liquid. I see the fabric of my pink dress billowing around me as I hurtle downwards, farther and farther from the surface. Distant rays of light fade away and darkness fills my vision. Fear rises in my chest as I lose the world I have known. 

But I fall. I am tired, and I fall. 

Beneath me, a sound rises. 

My body collides with a soft surface and I fall into the arms of the birdsong, sinking as it enfolds me. The sweet song speaks through my body. First my heart. Saying, What have you given up? 

My mind. And why? 

My stomach. To be human is to sing. 

I open my eyes. I kick myself off the surface I lay on and frantically start to swim. The liquid around me is viscous and heavy, and I realize that the easiest way to rise is to let go. An invisible current guides me upwards.

Within moments, I’m back above water. A white sky stretches above me, streaked with flecks of pink and purple. I am not in a pool, but a gold ocean, with no land in sight. 

As I tread water, my left foot makes contact with something hard beneath me. I stumble and then find my footing. A step. I check to see how far down they go but cannot see beneath the surface. Ahead of me, a faint outline of white stairs rises up and blends into the sky. 

I place my right foot on the next step, emerging fully out of the water, and then my left.

I walk and glance behind to see how far I have come, but as soon as I do, I am no longer climbing smooth stairs, but walking along flat sanded stone. I am back in the castle, in a long hallway I don’t recognize, lit with dim torches. 

The air smells old. I begin to run, nearly tripping over my silk dress, the balls of my feet tapping against stones. 

But instead of reaching an exit, I find the corridor curves, and there is no end in sight. My running becomes labored. A cry breaks free from my throat. I command it to stop, but the cry ignores me and escapes. I fall to my knees. My features twist, and I feel saltwater and snot on my face. 

“I don’t want this!” I shout into the silence.

What do you not want? A voice sings. 

I twist around, looking around for its source. 

“This torture. I just… I feel like I don’t exist, and I never did, and I never will.” My breathing slows down, and I wipe tears away. 

Nothing responds. 

“I… I need to speak. I need to draw, I need to paint, I need to write.”

I hear words again, and this time I can tell that the words are woven through birdsong. 

So speak. 

I open my mouth, a distant image trapped behind the dark opening of a mountain cave. I can trace its shape, but it won’t come out. 

I clench my fists. 

I open my mouth again, and a chorus of voices erupts from within me, wailing, Stupid girl! You’re going to die! There is nothing on the other side for you. 

But this time I ignore them, and I scream. Thousands of years of trapped rage and frustration flood out of me. 

When I run out of breath, I scream again. I don’t even notice the moment when the inner voices yelling at me fade away. 

I scream in this dim hallway, the cry shaking as it echoes. My voice grows hoarse, and I reload my breath again and again and scream. 

Then, in between breaths, I hear a bird’s distant happy song pierce through. It has a direction this time. 

Joy bursts out of me like a blooming flower bush, and I run towards the bird. My screams transform into song, the pain of birth giving way into beauty. I cascade down and up scales like sliding across a rainbow, singing so high I need to squeeze my eyes to reach the notes, and so low I cough and start laughing. 

I run, and I sing as I run. 

A breeze rushes into the stone hallway, and I see a green glimmer at its end. 

The end. I release my tired voice. Another step and I am standing on soft green grass. A dapple of sunlight caresses my face and the cool air feels like a drink of water. In this tiny garden, green leaves on both sides brush me in greeting as I walk through. 

I sing with fresh life around me, and beyond. I sing whales in the sea. I sing summer starlight. I sing paths that lead to other lands, that I will one day travel. 

I hear the rustle of a leaf and a familiar voice behind me. I turn around, and the tiny bird from my windowsill looks at me. 

Together, we sing.