The Yearning

He looked out of the window again towards the blood red fruit that looked ripe and full with juice.

It was a particularly windy day and his father had gone to work an hour ago. His father always stayed till late at work and left early ever since his mother died. “He sees her frail and brittle paralyzed body in me. “, he would often think but dismiss the thought after a while of introspection.

The birds chirped. He glanced outside again and saw a tiny sparrow flying towards the cherry tree for shelter. His cherry tree. Yes, the one he had never touched. Or tasted. Yet he knew for sure. His human reassured him of it. It was his tree. It was his possession. It was his Obsession.

Lately he would have the thought more often than before and he would want to fly, just like the feathered creature and go out and taste the fruit he had been tempted by, all this time.

He looked at his window. His luxurious room. It felt like a cage of his own. He looked down at his legs. “A cripple “, he scoffed. He heard the sparrow, in the distance now, chirp again. Suddenly he felt envious of the little bird. The human in him began to hate the little bird. He felt desperate to do something so he grabbed a paperweight from his desk and flung it at the bird in mad envy, only for the agile creature to miss.

He fell back on his bed. He had this sense of relief wash all over him. He closed his eyes and lay there for a moment before he opened them up sharply.

He stood up and laughed maniacally.

“I missed.”

“The bird is feathered, still.”, he cried out.

He took a step forward, his head now lightly touching the glass window. And with a lot of effort, he lifted up the window pane with his frail fingers, his pale green nerves bulging in his lean arms. His slender legs shook as they almost gave way under him due to the exhaustion from standing too long.

“It missed. The bird is feathered, still.”, he said, his voice, now, a mere whisper.

He jumped.

The gardener came home to find the young master lying on his chest on the wet grass. He called up help and several of the servants rushed from their quarters.

When they checked for any traces of life, they felt no heartbeat. His legs, like twigs, had cracked. They gently turned his body over and saw a beautiful smile on his lips, freshly adorned with cherry blood and the peels of soft skin of the fruit stuck in his teeth, much like the feathers of a Crimson Phoenix.