The Night Owl

Thursday, 12:34am.

I have never been one to diary my day, but I am willing to try, if for any reason but to examine my experience objectively. Some two months in midtown and my aspirations have quickly rotted into pleas for relief. I go to work to see my colleagues and envy their zeal and their tenacity, all the while shying from my superiors for all the work I have yet to complete. A three-bus link home each night and I am sitting at my computer, working some more, eating some more and doing all the mundane to sustain an existence.

For three nights, as of last night, I witnessed the strangest occurrence; dozens and dozens of birds flocking to my humble deck overlooking the street below. It is not the nature of birds on a third-floor landing that is strange, but that of the volume and variety of avian life that has made a home of my home. Three nights ago, 8:03pm to be precise, sucking down those last few grains of microwave rice, came the first of the freakish flock. Pigeons, crows, ibis and other assorted everyday feathered friends, in numbers common of the species but not of the congregation. Strangest of all, a single barn owl, a beautiful purest white boasting a sheen reflecting the night sky, sat in the centre of the flock. While all other birds would peck, scratch and bird around the place, this owl would only stare. The site of its grand eyes seemed grander the more I stared, so much so that I was forced to draw the curtains and hide away to sleep.

Suffice to say, sleep eluded for many hours, making the cleaning of the magnitude of morning after guano more than a hindrance. It was all I could do to not fall asleep between busses and stagger into work with a functional hangover by 9:14. This of course went fully noticed, and reprimands for the daily meeting were abundant. By mid afternoon I was performing my best impression of a bobble head doll, pausing only to freeze at the sight of any and every bird outside my cubicles small window.

The following nights and days until this time of writing have followed the same mould; each night a restful sleep drifting further away by the sight of a growing avian population. Each night migrant, common, vermin and carrion of greater and stranger variety, always led by the same, somewhat weathering owl, as if being tainted by the growing crowd of less than savoury feathered friends.

I arrive then at tonight, a Thursday morning half past midnight, to write this account in full shelter by my ceiling lights. For tonight my paranoia and procrastination of sleep has reached a new height in what I hope is hallucination. Sitting again by my computer screen, pouring over another meaningless spreadsheet and gulping down more of the same microwaved rice and bean, I heard it; the hoot of the owl. This I realised was the first noise from its beak I had heard, and in fact the first call of any of the birds from any of the nights. It wanted my attention, and it got it. Turning to the owl, something in its eyes was formless, eldritch; I could not place the feeling it gave and was compelled to look. The owl, no longer a brilliant white, began to shake its dark brown, filthy body, and in unison, its dozens of companions vibrated along with it. The birds magnetized towards their centre, and began to cluster around their leader, showing me that there were no longer any pigeons, no ibis, no colour to speak of, only crows and other corvid. This mob of black feathered beasts had never terrified me but certainly did tonight. They covered and convulsed, shuddering in ways no birds should, yet never obscuring those grand owl eyes.

I could see then; the vision of a dog, black and snarling, eyes golden wide and unblinking. It was then that I saw the owl move for the first time, in its newfound armour it let itself down to tile and faced the door. It sought entry, and for whatever reason, it sought me. I fled to my room, and hearing the crash of glass behind me, have locked myself herein, too terrified to form any hope of escape. As I write it has occurred to me that the scratching by the door is getting quiet, and my heart is slowing. I think it’s time to have a look.

***

Tuesday, 8:46pm

It has been four nights since the peak of my night terrors, and I write this entry in summary of each of my last four entries. Since Thursday I have still been plagued by what has indeed been some section between hallucination and reality. The birds always seem real, and they leave their mark on the landing, yet shattered glass is always perfectly formed, and torn carpets from raking claws are never needing mending Each night, a swarm of black birds has formed the dog that chases me from my activities, and each night I have retreated to my bedroom and journaled my experience to retain my calm.

Wonderfully, as each night passes and I chronicle the host of birds that frequent my apartment, I am able to achieve my calm faster, and my mind is soothed sooner. For every night I document the day and spend in reflection, the birds regain their colour, the corvid lose their majority, and strangely, the owl seems closer to the speckless white sheen I first knew it for. In fact, tonight marks a change; as I have yet to see the spectre of the dog that has plagued me, and the creeping tired of the day is reaching me sooner. I cannot help but humour myself and wonder if my pre-emptive bedroom retreat and daily reflection has come about as a therapy through the struggle. I could never say for certain, but what I can state, to conclude this retrospective as my hand slows and my eyes tire that this is a night for firsts. Although this last week I have seen many bird’s patron my landing, I have never before tonight seen them leave. And at the forefront of the flock, leading them away in shining pure white into the night, the night owl.