When the Curtains Close

The sun ascends, weaving light into the tapestry of dawn. Rufus, the whimsical rooster, commences his day on his usual perch by Chicken's window, his voice swelling with the morning's call: “COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO…” Suddenly, he pauses, puzzled by the sight of closed curtains. "That's strange... Chicken never shuts her drapes,” he murmurs, a furrow of worry knitting his brow.

Silence meets his concern. Rufus jumps down and flutters closer, peering through the curtain's narrow slit. There lies Chicken, cocooned under her blanket, awake yet immobilized. A shadow of concern dims Rufus’s typically bright tone. “Oh, Chicken...”

Gently, he taps the glass with his beak. "I’ll fetch help, Chick. Hold on; everything will be all right."

He departs with a sigh as heavy as the morning dew, his wings beating with a rare urgency. He darts through the fresh morning air, slicing between trees on his flight to Caroline's art-filled cabin, where modernity and nature embrace.

Misjudging the glass for open air, Rufus crashes with a comical thunk against the window, his surprised squawk echoing. Inside, Caroline, amidst her plant-tending ritual, casts a knowing glance at the spectacle. “Whoops!” Rufus regains his composure and raps on the window more determinedly. "Caroline? Are you there?"

Caroline slides open the glass door, shaking her head with a smirk. "Jesus, Rufus, I didn't subscribe to your morning wake-up calls. I’ve got the sun, and it’s free!" she jests, then softens as she notices his panic. "What's wrong?"

Gasping for breath, Rufus blurts out, “It’s Chicken... she’s... she’s not well.” Instantly, Caroline's playful demeanor evaporates, replaced by swift resolve. Setting her water pitcher aside, she declares, “Let’s go.”

Inside Chicken’s dimmed room, the curtains are drawn tight like the lids on forgotten jars of feelings. Chicken lies motionless, the blanket draped over her like a heavy shroud. Not mere sadness grips her—it's a denser, darker fog pressing coldly against her heart.

Echoes of Rufus’s morning songs, once a source of joy, now feel like distant murmurs of a happier past. The mere thought of facing the day seems a Herculean task, paralyzing her with its weight. She clutches the blanket closer, seeking refuge in the dark.

After explaining the situation, Rufus catches his breath as Caroline quickly grabs what she needs. They rush back to Chicken's chateau, the urgency palpable in their swift movements. As they reach the dew-kissed garden in front of Chicken's house, Rufus lands on the porch, still panting from their hurried flight, while Caroline fishes a key out of her pocket.

"You sure she’s okay?" Rufus asks, his tone laden with concern.

Caroline looks at him, her expression serious but reassuring. "She’ll be okay. But right now, she needs a little extra help." She unlocks the door and pauses, turning to him. "Thanks for letting me know, Rufus. You did the right thing."

Rufus hops from one foot to the other, his worry evident. "I can come in if you need me. Moral support, you know?"

Caroline smiles at him kindly, touched by his offer. "Thanks, Rufus. You’ve already helped a lot. I’ll take it from here and keep you updated, okay?"

Rufus hesitates for a moment, clearly torn. But eventually, he nods, puffing up his little chest bravely. "All right. Tell her I’m thinking about her, will you?"

"Of course," Caroline says warmly, her voice filled with gratitude. "Don’t fly into any more windows while you’re waiting."

With a soft chuckle, Rufus flaps his wings and takes off, his flight a bit wobbly as he leaves Caroline to step inside alone.

Caroline steps into the chateau, her senses immediately taking in the subtle shifts that speak of Chicken's inner turmoil. The usually tidy and welcoming space feels heavier today. A few dishes are piled in the sink, a blanket is half-draped over the couch's armrest, and a stack of unopened letters teeters on the entryway table. The air is still, too still, as if the house itself is holding its breath.

With a soft sigh, Caroline pauses to take in the scene, her gaze not judgmental but filled with understanding. She adjusts the blanket on the couch as she passes, smoothing it out with a gentle touch. A fallen pen catches her eye, and she picks it up, placing it back on a nearby table. Her attention is drawn to a small, folded piece of paper on the floor—it looks like one of Chicken’s poems, but it’s crumpled slightly, forgotten.

Chicken is meticulous about her poetry, carefully treating each piece of paper, never allowing a crease or rip, even on bad days. But during her manic phases, the chaos becomes visible, spilling into her surroundings. Caroline unfolds the crumpled paper, revealing rough scratches of handwriting, not Chicken’s usual elegant cursive. She reads silently, the words starkly contrast to the poised verses she is accustomed to.

Holding the poem close, Caroline continues toward Chicken’s room, her steps quiet, her heart heavy but determined. She pauses outside the door, listening for any sound from within. Only the faint rustle of the curtains in the morning breeze answers back.

“Chicken? It’s me,” she calls softly, her voice steady but gentle. There’s no response.

Caroline places a hand on the doorframe, taking a deep breath. “I’m coming in, okay?”

She pushes the door open and enters quietly. The room is dim, and the morning light struggles to penetrate through the closed curtains. The air feels heavy and stagnant. Chicken sits on the bed, her back to the door, her head tilted slightly forward as if lost in the stillness. Her eyes are fixed on the curtains, but there’s no real focus—just staring.

Caroline steps further into the room, keeping her movements deliberate and quiet. Sensing the fragility of the moment, she doesn’t speak right away.

“Aw, Chicken,” she says softly, her voice laced with warmth and concern. Chicken doesn’t respond, her gaze unmoving from the window. Caroline sits down at the edge of the bed, giving Chicken plenty of space. She doesn’t force eye contact or demand a response, knowing that presence sometimes speaks louder than words.

“You know,” she begins, trying to inject a light tone, “Rufus wanted to come in and squawk at you himself. Took some convincing to leave him outside.”

A slight twitch of Chicken’s mouth suggests a brief, almost imperceptible smile, but she doesn’t turn or speak.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Caroline continues, shifting slightly on the bed. “Just letting you know you’re not alone.”

After a long silence, Chicken moves just a little—her shoulders drop slightly, and her wings shift, like she’s loosening the grip of whatever’s holding her down. Slowly, she sits up straighter, her gaze still fixed on the window.

Caroline notices the movement but doesn’t push. Instead, she leans back slightly, resting her hands behind her. “You’ve been here before,” she says quietly, calm and reassuring. “And you got through it then. You will again. No rush, though.”

Chicken’s head tilts just slightly as if considering Caroline’s words. The tension in her wings eases, even if only by a fraction.

Caroline moves closer, her movements deliberate and gentle. She sits on the edge of the bed and places her hand lightly on Chicken’s wing. “What can I do to help?” she asks softly.

Chicken still hasn’t moved or spoken, her gaze fixed on the closed curtains as if searching for something out of reach. The stillness in the room feels heavier now, and Caroline’s ears twitch slightly as she picks up on what’s missing.

She doesn’t smell Chicken’s usual coffee—the comforting, familiar scent that always lingers in the air of her home. Caroline glances at the empty nightstand and back at her friend.

“How about I make you some coffee?” Caroline offers, her tone light but encouraging. “I’ll even use that fancy oat milk you keep lecturing me about.”

There’s no response, but Caroline notices the tiniest shift in Chicken’s posture—her head tilts ever so slightly, and her wing feathers twitch under Caroline’s hand.

Caroline gives her wing a gentle squeeze. “Okay,” she says, standing up. “I’ll be right back. And if you feel like joining me in the kitchen, great. If not, that’s okay too.”

With that, before stepping out of the room, Caroline places the poem on the tiny table between the two reading chairs in front of the window covered by curtains, leaving the door ajar so Chicken can hear the sounds of her bustling around, a subtle reminder that she’s not alone.

Chicken's gaze drifts from the shadowed curtains to the poem resting on the table, a beacon in her muted world. She rises slowly, her movements tender and deliberate, as if each motion mends a fragile piece of her spirit. Gently, she draws back the curtains, letting the morning light spill into the room like a warm embrace.

Taking a deep breath to steady her heart, Chicken reaches for her poem. Her fingers carefully smooth out the wrinkles, each line straightening like thoughts aligning in her mind. She reads aloud, her voice a whisper in the quiet room:

'I shout with joy, then fall to tears, Caught in a dance of shifting gears.'

The words linger in the air, a testament to her struggles and resilience. After reading, she presses the paper against her heart, closing her eyes as the sunlight kisses her face, its warmth contrasting with the cool tears that begin to trace her feathers. At this moment, bathed in light, Chicken finds a silent strength, feeling the weight of her emotions yet standing steadfast, ready to face the day's dance.

Poem For this Episode

When the Curtains Close

I shout with joy, then fall to tears, Caught in a dance of shifting gears.

CKN