Dove by Ben Blackwell
Enara gazed out of the living room window. Already the walls of her house had started to close in on her. Usually the sight of an empty street greeted her from the window. The languid longevity of lockdown had locked away her freedom. Her planned holiday with her friends. Cancelled. The many barbecues she would have attended. Cancelled. Her birthday party. Cancelled.
Enara understood why quarantine had been enforced but it did not seem practical; she did not know anyone who had been infected yet. Sure, there was a rumour of one case on the other side of the city but she suspected it was a cough being attributed to the disease through fear. In fact, that was the only thing quarantine had achieved. People fighting over toilet paper and the empty shelves of supermarkets solidified this reality.
Among the grey pavement void of people, the unwashed cars and silence, a bird fluttered to the floor, away from its nest. Enara laid down her phone, which she had been aimlessly scrolling through like she had done for the previous few days. Its feathers were pure white, untainted and oblivious to the tragedies of the world. Its eyes were glinting with curiosity and enthusiasm. Enara’s attention was held by the dove.
The dove was the only evidence of life from the outside world. Enara advanced towards the dove, kneeling by the window, the frame reminding her of bars. The glass separated her and the dove, which had approached her. Enara placed a palm onto the window. The dove seemed to look through the window to Enara before spreading its wings, leaving her for the open embrace of the sky above.
The initial duration for lockdown was supposed to be three weeks. By now, Enara was not so desperate to meet others. She now knew several people who had been diagnosed with covid, including her grandmother whose situation was terminal. Instead of being sentenced to merely avoid people, her sentence had changed to not being able to see any of her friends and family, the people she loved dearest.
Enara had always wished for longer breaks from the perceived monotony of school. She had convinced herself that she would utilise this time and refine her writing in hope of being published but now, with months looming ahead with no human interaction, she felt no motivation to be productive. The first weeks of lockdown had supported this so far. She spent so much time on her sofa that she had carved her impression into it. She was worried they would not be able to replenish the cupboards after hoarding crisps and chocolate and ice-creams. She had given up all hopes of turning lockdown into a positive experience for her.
Enara reached the six-week mark before the dove returned. The house had started to suffocate her, even with the escapism of a window. Having become accustomed to the view from her sofa, any movement drew Enara’s attention instantly. Her street had become increasingly barren of the friendly faces of her neighbours and the familiarity of a car engine. The dove flew down to just in front of a bush. Enara was unsure if it was the same bird as its wings were tainted, from the white of an angel’s to a tired grey. Approaching the window, Enara sympathised with those pet birds kept cramped in cold cages. She knew it was, in fact, the same dove she had seen weeks before, recognising the same sparkling eyes. Through all the ambiguity of the world at present, Enara knew one certainty: she was envious of the bird and its freedom. For a while, Enara knelt by the window, observing the dove as it pecked at its grey surroundings.
It returned to where it had landed, by the bush. The dove never saw the cat, hidden amongst the leaves, leaping silently and clenching it jaws around the dove’s neck, stopping its breath.
Written by Ben Blackwell
I am currently studying A-levels in Bath. I’ve always enjoyed creative writing and after winning short story competitions such as the Mid-Somerset Festival, the Threshold Prize and being published in my school anthologies, I am looking to apply for a university course in English Literature and Creative Writing. When I’m not writing, I enjoy playing rugby and spending time with my friends.