Worms

Allison Izui · May 6, 2022

There is a bird outside my window that has fallen in love with my sixteen-year-old cat. My cat is uninterested. She tells me as such through heavy-lidded glares and a twitchy tail, the only language I have interpreted in weeks.

The bird is persistent, though, suffering through multiple concussions in hopes of impressing the lazy sack of fur that plants itself on my pillow. Not that it matters much; I haven’t left my bed for anything other than using the bathroom and filling the cat’s food bowl.

I can’t remember how long ago that was. My cat has no interest in helping me, and the bird is even less capable of managing its time. Instead, it runs its beak back into my window in what looks like a vain attempt to seduce my cat.

My cat’s name is technically Czechoslovakia, but she has been reduced to Chuckles as the years move on. I try to telepathically communicate this to the bird in some vague attempt at being its wingman. Whether or not he understands me has yet to be seen as feathers smear across the glass, unbroken but approaching a distressing sight.

As I watch, I note that the bird is blue. I hadn’t noticed it until it disappeared for a day. Once it returned, I was struck by how blue it was.

Everything is muted through this window except this stupid bird, who must be entranced by my mean old cat napping on my only pillow.

I have lived in this house my entire life. It is saturated with memories of a childhood that has long since passed and people who have been gone for many years. I have never seen a bird like this one though, and I can’t blink as it headbutts my window again and again.

My stare causes the bird to pause, only for a moment, before continuing with more vigor. It’s a violent, contorting gesture of adoration. Behind my fascination there’s a hazy urge to throw up. I’m too tired to muster up bile, though, so instead I nudge the cat with my foot.

“Chuckles,” I whisper, noting her attempt at looking disinterested. She remains completely unmoved except for the twitch of her ears that gives her away. “Your friend is here.”

Her tail swishes dismissively, as if to say, They’re not my friend, idiot.

The bird pecks at the window frame in a thrilled response, frenzied pecks that I translate into a painful love letter. Oh, but aren’t we? You cannot deny the connection between us, regardless of these impenetrable defenses you have built up to keep yourself isolated. When was the last time your heart raced like this?

Chuckles straightens up, but not to respond to the bird’s soliloquy. Instead, she takes a step towards me before pawing at my thigh. Though the bird might, I don’t miss the split-second glance towards the window. How vindictive. I suppose her unnarrated answer was something biting. But all I know is that she is hungry. So, I get up. I pour the last of her food into a bowl. And I go back to bed.

Tomorrow I will go out for cat food. But today I am trapped in my own room, waiting for my cat to come back. When she finally returns, glutted, it is in padding steps.

The bird raged against my window, like they always do. This time I got up and opened it.

“Well,” I said, my voice ragged from a record of disuse. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

The bird paused, mid-strike, as if they had only just realized that the glass was a threat once it was removed. They sat on my windowsill and stared up at me.

I am not a tiger. They announce through ruffled shudders. It might just be them attempting to recover from their injuries, but I explain myself nonetheless.

“It’s an expression.”

I have no interest in being a bulky, striped monstrosity, they assert, beaten up wings flapping angrily without any attempt to leave or approach.

I give Chuckles a look, which she ignores in favor of reclaiming her spot on my pillow. She glares at both the bird and me through slitted, green eyes. I told you. They’re stupid and annoying. Now either shut the window or shut up.

For a moment, I do nothing but stare at her, dim frustration and fractured disbelief welling behind my ears. “They like you.”

And I am old and tired, she answers, not with her soft meows but in the way she curls into herself. She is an ornery, disillusioned little creature and, as I look at her now, I start to realize that she is also losing fur in patches. I don’t have time to entertain prey, much less for my own amusement.

Looking back at the still bird, perched precariously on my filthy windowsill, I process that for a moment.

This is a being built to be eaten by her. Nature dictates that she consumes them to continue some form of cyclical, self-prescribed justice. Worms are eaten by birds, which are eaten by cats who digest and then shit them out, just for more worms to eat that once it has been returned to the earth.

Do you get it now? Chuckles asks, barely sparing me a flick of her tail. It’s approaching her naptime. I revise her words to be shorter, less worried and more appraising. You look even more tired than usual.

Nodding in agreement, I whisper back, “Worms.”

The bird is rightfully indignant, squawking for the first time in what I can only describe as reproach. But there are ways to conquer such existential dread! Haven’t you tried yoga? Drinking more water? Meditation? Love?

They barely get through the first recycled suggestion before I’m falling back into bed. These are sentiments that have been repeated for my sake since the dawn of my emptiness. I know these are kind and I know these can be helpful, but echoing noise does not leave a stronger impact on my psyche. Not for the first time, I entertain the thought of disappearing.

Chuckles must share some variation of the same thought, for she eyes me in a way that is somewhat relieved and disappointed before settling her body on my hip. She has a way of perfectly choosing where to sit to trigger my chronic back pain. I treasure her for it.

The bird pecks on my windowsill, drawing our collective gaze back to it once more.

They stare back at us for a few moments before pecking again. They peck. And peck. And carve a hole into the white paint, exposing softening oak. This house has been deteriorating long before we showed signs of it.

Chuckles releases a shuddering breath against my thigh, tail wrapping more firmly around herself as the bird waits for an answer. It feels permanent, like she can’t bear to move again. I don’t give her any more words. She’s had enough.

The bird is not looking at her, though. They train their eyes on mine.

What are you waiting for? We ask each other simultaneously.

Blue feathers spread out in a facsimile of a mating dance, shivering open in a welcome that has long been lost to natural selection. They dip their head. You said it yourself: all beings are connected. By what, though?

In a better, more stable moment, my immediate answer would be ‘Who cares?’ Today, though, I had gone nearly four days without eating, seven without leaving this house, and sixteen without speaking. Today, I was talking to a bird. One whom I have convinced myself through sheer listlessness has fallen in love with my cat.

“Suffering,” I whisper back.

Yes, and?

“And?”

There is more to life than suffering. The bird, with the sudden voice of a friend I have learned to miss, explains patiently. There is no sound except for the tap of their childish hopping and a curious tilt of the head. I blame it on the concussion they must have. What else?

It’s hard to imagine much more. The deep, unspoken sense of wrongness rooted in my chest fights for anger but comes out numb. Prodding it with creaky bones brings forth a wave of nausea. Nausea––which is like seeing the moon for the first time in a long storm. Hopeful, although the wind still bites.

Chuckles only grumbles out in answer to my disturbance. I slip out of bed, careful not to dethrone her, wary while gathering myself.

Slow steps follow me through my home, tracing through the dust and deterioration on my way to the kitchen. There is a long history here, as well as a future.

Right now, though, I have to drive my cat to a vet appointment that was scheduled for a week ago.