Wings on the rack

You can get used to being in jail. You can even reach the point of finding it comfortable. Sinking in that well known, familiar hole, your cosy spot where they cannot harm you...
It’s the same routine every day. All the tiny details worked out to perfection. To fill your day with them, so that you would never get bored. So that you would never have to think. Because that would drive you crazy.

Of course, somehow she already went crazy, just did not want to admit it.
She would rather bury her thoughts.
Because she was afraid of asking the questions.

She tried to answer them so many times she could not even count them. Instead, she merely stared at them, like trapped by vertigo on the verge of a precipice.

Then she lets go of the rail and walks away.
She doesn’t dare. Yet she knows she has wings.
She never dares use her wings.

Once she made an attempt, but didn’t carry it through. She was already standing on top of the rail, looking down into the deep, watching the others fly with confidence.
A leap of faith, that was all she needed.

She gets back to the house, hangs the wings next to the raincoat, and sits in front of the television. There is a list on the coffee table. It’s the list of all her chores. She goes through it every day, checks a couple of chores off, but mostly she prolongs the deadlines.
She goes to the kitchen and does the dishes, as neatly as always. She puts away the clean and dry pans in the cupboard.
She loves her kitchen, it’s like the heart her little flat.
Or is it her life’s?
She doesn’t want to speculate about it, nor answer it.
Just likes having it tidy and clean.