In Continuum.

Death Of A Canary



Donald Kaufman," Listen, I need a cool way to kill people. Don't worry, for my script."
Charlie Kaufman," I don't know that kind of stuff."
Donald Kaufman," Oh, come on, man, please? You're the genius."
Charlie Kaufman," Here you go. The killer's a literature professor. He cuts off little chunks from his victims' bodies until they die. He calls himself 'The Deconstructionist'."

--- Adaptation (2002)

There was a boy with bland features but subtly adorable, silky hair atop his youthful head and red veins visible through his fragile white skin. He spoke not a single word even at the age of two, and his family gradually started to question one by one if the ear-piercing screams that echoed down the halls two years earlier were merely a practical joke pulled by this mute child, to see his parents' faces once they discover their precious son's inability to utter a single word.

Laconic in nature, the boy had interest in many different things in life. As if his mother's womb was the doorway to a completely different dimension, everything that moved and remained stationary were objects of much fascination and intrigue. He roamed the house and explored every corner with the tips of his fingers and the look of innocence in his eyes. The way the dog ran around in circles in the lawn, the way the sun felt so cold after being filtered through the stained glass doors, the way the blankets would resemble the mountain or the clouds outside his bedroom window, and the way the birds fluttered their wings in the skies in the evening, returning home to their nests in the horizon beyond the crest of the hill. Always, with much curiosity he watched, touched and learned. The dog too, stared back at the boy with equal curiosity, but with unmatched desire to boost his knowledge, for the boy was eager to learn more and more from this strange, alien world.

Until his second birthday, the boy uttered no words that cheered his parents. Like his desire to understand this uncharted territory, his midnight brawls and tears never seem to run out. Always waking up in the middle of the night and banging his palms on the side of the metal cradle, begging for milk or the change of his diapers. His parents were worried, but ignorance of the young boy overwhelmed him, always looking to new objects in the house to put in his mouth or ponder over with his eyes.

The mistake was made by the family when they brought back a canary, placed in a wooden cage with a small sliding door to the side. This strange creature captured the attention of the boy, as it fluttered it's wings in the cage and almost always had a look of hopelessness in it's eyes. As if it was calling out for help to the fellow birds flying away over the crest of the hill behind the house, the canary always looked in that same direction but made no sound. Like the speechlessness that plagued the boy even at the delayed age of two and a half, there seemed to be a communion between the boy and the canary, the silent understanding between the two living things of the hatred of the wooden cage - the love for freedom.

Everyday, the boy looked into the cage and saw the sadness in the canary's eyes. Chained to the wooden bar in the cage, it had nowhere to go but the little space within, not even big enough for it to spread out it's wings. Restricted, confined and captured, this animal was no longer a bird that flew in the sky, but merely a bird and no more. The love for this caged animal grew within the boy, and the temptation to touch it's smooth white feathers overwhelmed it. In fact, the love grew so great that the boy wanted to hold the bird in his hands and keep the bird for himself - forever. It was an innocent love, but a perverse love nonetheless. So one day, he decided to set the bird free in the same innocent and perverse manner.

His tiny fingers fitted through the space between the wooden bars, and into the cage they stretched. Love was written all over his fingers and face, overflowing the brink of his heart like water running from a tap into a cup. He tried to grab the canary, but reacting to it's natural instincts it shunned away from the boy's grasping fingers. If the boy could speak, he would've said something like," Don't run away little bird, I am trying to love you!" But he remained quiet, almost too quiet for the canary's comfort. It went hysterical in the cage, fluttered about here and there and always missing the tips if the boy's fingers by an inch or two.

Finally, the boy managed to pinch the feathers of the canary, and tried to drag it towards the door. But the canary struggled free every time it happened, and this process went on and on until at the bottom of the cage where the newspaper and the bird droppings were, were stained also with white feathers tipped with blood. The boy was pulling off the feathers of the canary by accident, knowing only in his mind that he wanted to love the bird, to set the bird free. But why are you bleeding birdie, I am only trying to love you - to set you free!

The feathers stuck to the sweat on the boy's palm, the canary laid motionless at the bottom of the cage - dead. He poked the canary a few times, with the feather snowing down upon the body like a winter he never witnessed before, as the empty stare of the canary stared back at the boy. He was confused, for he knew little to none about the mortality of living things. The canary was dead, killed under the innocent hands of the boy who only wanted to love it with all his heart. Killed, under the loving hands of the boy, the irony that ensued the attempt to love. For isn't it true, that the path to hell is paved solely by the good intentions?

So the death of the canary remained in the back of the boy's memories and was forgotten until years later. But the desire remained, to set the canary free with his love. Still, he desired for the bird to fly far far and away from the wooden cage, but under the same touch of love he committed murder. He wonder if the canary understood his intentions, he wonder if the canary forgave his actions. So is it the boy's fault to like, to love, to desire and to eventually - though unintentionally - kill? Love drove the boy, and love drove him over the edge.

The boy grew up, and the boy is me. I don't remember myself doing that when I was a kid, but through the words of my parents I think I did. I don't remember the incident, but I do remember the canary - dead and lifeless, killed and murdered. I saw this weak relation between the two incidents, for even though it has been years, the intentions are the same: I only wanted to love. But to hurt was another matter altogether. I merely, wanted to love.

But is it the fault of the boy, or the canary which shunned away from his love so? He wouldn't know - I wouldn't know - for the canary laid dead amongst her own pile of bird droppings and old newspapers, and the boy grew up and grew numb. Harshness of life, the absolution of death. The person at fault, doesn't matter anymore, for the death of a heart cued the end of a staged show.