When the Muse strikes at 2 in the morning, you can't help but run with it. So seeing as how it is super late at the moment, I'm going to apologize in advance for the pacing and any other little details you might have a problem with. It's one of the few short stories I managed to, you know, keep short. So here you are. I'm going to bed now.
There was a broken fairy in her grandmother’s attic.
Bryn Fletching was a child of naught but six when she first discovered the small figurine. She remembered climbing the dusty ladder that led way up into the tiny, dirty, little room that had been around since her mother was a child. The floor was old cedar wood that had long since lost its sharp, spicy tang with the many years weighing on it, and it was covered from wall to wall with countless knick-knacks and ancient pieces of furniture. The ceiling angled downwards, creating tiny, unusable spaces in the back of the attic. Spaces hardly touched by bright light that brings only certain spots into sharp contrast, or gray light that sprawls across everything without care or concern.
There was one window to the left if one was to come up the ladder, it was small, but let in enough sun to make it possible to navigate the slightly disarrayed aisles of boxes (neatly labeled, though) that made searching for an object a little easier. The dust on the plank floor was at least an inch thick, and every sound of the outside world was so faint that it might not have been there at all. It was like another world.
It was quaint and haunting, and she’d almost immediately fled back down the ladder on reaching the top. But before she could do so she noticed something hiding away in a small basket of several odds and ends, perched on top of a particularly worn desk. Cautious, as only a six year old can be, she tiptoed across the floor raising clouds of dust that were too lazy to climb any higher than her knees. Bryn flinched as the floor creaked at her like the joints of an old man that had seen too many years a long time ago. She did eventually make it to the desk and shyly rummaged through the basket. It was filled to the brim with a whole host of seemingly useless items that she found exceedingly dull. As she withdrew a golden watch on a chain (which had been what she’d seen in the first place), she noticed a broken fairy statue at the bottom. Gingerly putting the watch down she fished the pretty thing out and examined it in the early morning light filtering in from the window, as dust motes swirled about in some intricate dance.
She was by far the saddest, most beautiful thing Bryn Fletching had ever had the pleasure of seeing in her short life. Perched on what looked like a silver crescent moon, she stared upwards as if seeking something beyond the known world. Light, almost ivory, hair tumbled down her back in a fall of helpless curls that reached her waist, while sweet blue eyes searched for something they could never find. An elegant gray dress was settled over her tiny body, pausing at her slim ankles. Slipper-clad feet pointed gracefully downwards, while her moon-white hands grasped the top of the moon as if to hold her steady.
She had only one translucent, delicate wing remaining on her slightly arched back, and Bryn thought it was a terrible thing to be that beautiful, and be denied the privilege of flight when one clearly wanted it so badly. Everything from her expression to her posture spoke of some silent request to be free. But she was earthbound.
Bryn resolved to search for the fairy’s missing wing until she found it.
Then she heard her grandmother calling her down to eat breakfast, and the little girl could only touch where the figurine’s wing should’ve been before opening one of the drawers in the old mahogany desk and nestling the little fairy into the folds of some long-forgotten article of clothing. With that she hurried back downstairs.
She didn’t tell her grandmother about her discovery though. It didn’t seem right.
Bryn Fletching visited her grandmother every Sunday, along with her mother, father and older brother. Her mom would often fret after Bryn would leave the table that the little girl was spending too much time cooped up in that attic. Then she’d fire questions at her own mother to try and find some reason to forbid Bryn to do so. To her credit though, Bryn’s grandmother answered them patiently.
“What about rats? Surely there are rats up there, she could get the plague. She’s only
eight ma.”
“Dear, haven’t seen a rat since I started usin’ that special poison.”
“You know that poison you told me about? I bet it doesn’t prevent bats from getting there, they have diseases to don’t they? Worse than rats, I bet.”
“Bats don’t live around here, dear.”
“That
dust, goodness me, you know Bryn is allergic to dust.”
“She hasn’t had an asthma attack since she was four, which is around seven years now, right? Besides, she knows to come down if it gets hard to breath.”
“You know there are some days when she comes home absolutely disgusting, cobwebs and dirt hanging off her hair and clothes. Not to mention the cuts and bruises she gets from crawling all over that filthy place.”
“It’s part of bein’ a kid, Ashleigh, I remember when you’d come home covered from head to toe in mud.”
“She saw a spider, mom. We simply can
not allow her up there anymore. She could come across some brown recluse or black widow. Mom she could
die.”
“They don’t live around here either, Ash dear. Do stop worryin’ about Bryn, she’s perfectly capable of takin’ care of herself. She’s
sixteen.”
~*~*~
Bryn Fletching had been searching for that wing since she was six, she’d started from the right-hand side of the room and combed her way to the left in twelve years. And still had found nothing. She couldn’t find it in herself to give up though, the fairy seemed to have gotten more forlorn with each passing year and it drove her onward.
The girl’s searches had always seemed sort of hopeless, but there was some kind of peaceful solitude to it as well. Which was part of the reason why she wouldn’t give it up just yet. It relaxed her, and gave her something to work for. It was a hobby of sorts in all actuality.
Her friends thought her a little crazy that she liked to delve into her grandmother’s attic on Sundays, but didn’t question her really. Sometimes they offered to help, but she always turned them down with a slight smile, saying that it was sort of her own little thing. She’d never told them why she did it, despite the fact they’d asked several times.
They left the subject alone for the most part though.
It was the summer after her last year in high school and she was delighted that the college she would be attending was only about a thirty minute drive from her grandmother’s house. This meant she could still do her quest for the wing, even if it meant in slightly shorter time intervals to allow for homework or studying.
She was okay with that.
Her grandmother never asked her why she went through every box and drawer in that attic.
College started and she found herself getting wrapped up in studying (as she’d predicted) as well as parties. Her mother was relieved at this, finally daring to hope that Bryn had given up, and would start embracing her life a little more to its fullest. She didn’t push the change, merely asking casually every now and then what Bryn had found in the attic lately (she had discovered something new every time she looked, and had never failed to tell the whole family). Her replies tended to be a little distant, as if she was guilty, saying that she hadn’t really had time to do much of her attic-combing. Her mother made appropriate noises of sympathy and regret.
The first time she was able to do something more in the attic was about halfway through her first semester, and she had fled upstairs on a Saturday after a week of severely testing midterms. Telling her friends that she would see them on Sunday evening (none of them had classes early Monday morning), she threw herself into a day-long frenzy of scouring every box she could. Only pausing for mealtimes.
She collapsed in bed that night around 8 and was out like a light.
The next morning she helped her grandmother clean up around the house to prepare for the traditional Sunday breakfast her family had. It was pleasant and Bryn’s mom didn’t once mention the attic to anybody. It was a nice breakfast, and Bryn left the table feeling quite affectionate towards her slightly quirky family. They left a little past noon.
That evening before Bryn left she roamed up the ladder on a whim. She couldn’t tell why she went up there, but she did. It was dark, but her grandmother had, quite fortunately in her opinion, long-since had a light installed. She clicked this on, before scrutinizing the tidy room. Over the years Bryn had dusted and swept and organized until she’d had the room nearly spotless. Boxes were lined up in sinfully straight rows, all of them organized into separate categories. She’d left the three desks, the dresser, the bookshelf (she’d read every book it had held), and the chest in their places because they were too heavy for her to be moving about. She’d just worked around them.
Her system had made it easy to find what she was looking for... except that one wing. Bryn found herself walking to the desk that held the fairy, with the basket she’d originally found her in, perched on top. She poked through it idly, before opening the drawer (she had to slide the top middle drawer out in order to open the others). She picked the fairy up, gently stroking the broken stub where her wing should have been while she took in every little detail of the figure. The fairy had always looked fragile, and now even more so, as if each day without being able to fly had aged her. But still beautiful.
“I’m sorry.” Bryn whispered quietly, “I’ve tried for nearly thirteen years now.” The fairy made no response, but the girl thought that maybe her expression had softened at the words. Shaking her head at her silliness, she tenderly tucked the figurine back into the drawer and closed it.
As she stared down at the desk, tears threatening to fall, she reached a decision.
When she told her grandmother about the fairy statuette, the old woman stared at her disbelievingly for a second before laughing long and heartily.
“That’s what you’ve been lookin’ for all this time, Bryn? Oh my dear, you should have told me. I’ve been tryin’ to find that damn fairy for years now, I have her wing tucked away safe-like in my dresser.” And then the woman laughed some more, and Bryn couldn’t help but chuckle as well. Well more like hysterically laugh for ten or so minutes straight.
As soon as she got the wing she went streaking up the ladder, only pausing to flick on the light. She had hot glue and the wing in each hand and hurriedly set them down in order to get the fairy out.
“I have it, and you wouldn’t believe where it was!” she gasped, not really thinking about how strange this might’ve sounded to any person just walking by the base of the ladder, “You’ll be free in no time at all.” Just as she was heating up the hot glue gun she heard the doorbell ringing, before her friends’ voices started yelling at her to hurry up, they were running late.
She hesitated at first, glancing down at the fairy who seemed to have gotten back some kind of hope on her thin face. Reluctantly she unplugged the hot glue gun, before placing the broken wing beside the fairy.
“Here, as soon as I get back, I promise I’ll put it back on. Please don’t give me that look,” somewhere in the back of her head Bryn realized she was arguing with an inanimate object, but she still continued, “we’ve waited nearly thirteen years, I think we can afford to wait a little longer.” Her friends’ increased their pitch and pace of delivery and she winced, “You’ll fly again, don’t worry.” She whispered rapidly before rushing back down the ladder, not bothering to turn off the light or push the ladder back up. Once she was on the ground floor again she rushed to the front door, telling her grandmother that she would be back late and not to wait up for her.
When the door slammed shut, Claire thought she heard a grief-stricken whisper from upstairs, but shrugged it off as the wind and went back to knitting while she watched TV. Intent on staying up until Bryn got home anyway.
But Bryn didn’t ever come back to them. Either of them.
