Quez’s Cage

You have no one to talk to, and it drives you crazy. Of course, you attempted to escape this cage numerous times: you pecked the steel cage with your beak; you budged top, down, left, right, hoping that the power of your wings could break it; you shouted for help, wishing that some human out there might be kind enough to open this cage for you. But what was all that for? Nothing worked.

Every morning, Quez, your human owner, feeds you. “Don’t tell me it’s that pellet again,” you say to yourself every time, and yes, of course, it’s always that pellet. Brown, round, bland; you’ve been eating this your entire life, and you’re sick of it. You often hope that, perhaps, Quez is kind enough to feed you worms or an extra large grasshopper. That never happened, and at this point, you don’t see it happening—ever.

When you look up, you often see a pack of your kin gliding freely in the sky. How does it feel to hop from pine trees to pine trees? How does it feel to have friends? How does the lake water taste like?

Something deep and fundamental within you have died a long time ago, and sometimes you really, really wonder whether you’re still alive.