Death of a Nightingale

CHAPTER 3: MEET THE NIGHTINGALE

On the 3 am subway ride back into downtown Atlanta, I can't stop thinking about the bravery of my new nurse friend. I'm not usually impressed by humans. Most of them are quite selfish and boring. They all think they are not, but trust me, as someone who looks nineteen and is considered beautiful, I get a wide range of behavior thrown my way. Most of the time that ends in tears. Sometimes death.

I'm alone. Staring out of the blurry window at the few city lights passing by. Or I suppose I'm the one who is passing. The lights are still. The Aquarium is lit in blue. It's pretty. Calming. The train rattles to a stop. On the opposing track, a train faces in the other direction. I peer inside the window.  There is another lost soul at this crazy hour. She's young. Her wiry curls bounce as she pops in her headphones. A bike next to her and a very bright, yellow raincoat. Modern fashion is strange. As my train rattles to life, she raises her head and looks at me. Our eyes meet and stay glued to each other as my train leaves her behind. Increasing the distance between the stranger and me. Something sparks within me. I can't tell you why, but I want to see the shape of her almond eyes closer. And why not? I'm not in a rush. I have all the time in the world. I pull the emergency brake and the train startles to an abrupt stop mid-tunnel. I can hear the driver shouting. Inquiring whether there is an emergency. I mean, there is. I have to check just how the rain behaves in the stranger's hair.

Before the train driver can even reach my car, I've pulled the doors open without much struggle. Yes, strength is an advantage of my condition. I slip into the tunnel, none of my steps making a sound and I look back. The lights of the other train are just fading ahead. If I hurry, I can catch it. But better yet, I'll catch HER at the main station. I think I know where she's going. Must be 'Five Points.' That's where the lines connect. I step onto the platform and burst up the stairs into the city. The cold air hits me as I let my feet fly over the wet stone. A few cars still shine their lights, reflected in puddles across the lanes. I scurry between them so fast that they just see a shadow. I round a corner and hurl myself up a fire escape. The air smells cleaner already. No garbage, no unwashed humans to pollute it. I take a running leap and jump from one roof to the next. The illuminated skyline provides a nice decoration to my haste.

I can see the building. Fluorescent lights emanate through the windows, giving the surroundings a bit of a clinical feel. Just a general note, those lights need to go. There is nothing great about them. We had candles and everything looked a lot more romantic. The food, the people, the dirty streets, and death. In the fluorescent ambiance, everything just looks sickly. I hop down, knees barely bending. Four stories straight down, nary a scratch. I could be flashy and do a backflip, landing like one of your cherished superheroes, but I'm not a show-off. And I'm in a hurry. I hope she's actually at the station. What if she got off a stop earlier? I discard the thought and rush the last few yards towards the station, entering just like any of you would. Hood over my long hair, shoulders hunched in, and walking briskly.

The two resident gargoyles judge me and everyone else equally. They don't like the lighting either. They both grimace down at me in utter discontent. Sorry buddies. I make my way down to the platform. A handful of people are just exiting a train. I scan them with immortal efficiency. By that I mean, I can smell things on you. Fear, sickness, arousal. It's usually not a very good cocktail, because you humans are so utterly bashful about them while pretending that none of them exist. And when you do that, you make any of them that much more intense. The passengers hurry off. None have almond eyes. Behind me, another train approaches and screeches to a halt. Smelling vaguely of urine. I slightly choke up. Disgusting. Only two people exit before it heaves itself back into motion. Did I miss her? I look around. Did she get off at the last stop? Oh no.

And then it hits me. A very faint scent of lilac and amber. Soft. Pleasant. Like candlelight. I take another breath and turn. From behind a big pillar, she steps out, pushing her bike. Her skin is smooth and impossibly soft. Her fingers long and elegant. Her eyes dart up to focus on the escalators and for a second they pass by me. Those darling, almond eyes. Rich in brown and musical in shape. I'm struck, but I turn quickly. She shouldn't see me staring at her so blatantly. As she passes me, only inches away, her warm scent hits my nostrils again, making up for all the vile ones of the night. She's a nightingale. A fragile, beautiful songbird in a world of darkness. You see, a nightingale is an amazing creature. They sing the most beautiful songs to attract a mate, but what it also summons are predators, enthralled by the possibility of owning and devouring it. That's me, I suppose. A hawk, ready to hunt. My heart skips a beat. I didn't know it could still do that. What a vulnerable feeling. I watch her ascend the escalator, struggling to keep her bike steady. I slow my thoughts down. Poetry helps.

Last night upon the stair,

I saw a girl who wasn't there.

She wasn't there again today.

Oh, how I wish she'd go away.

She loves a songbird, pure and fair.

 A nightingale, a song of air. 

Of Innocence, of life and yearning.

A bird of love, but dead come morning.

I always loved spinning poems further. Seeing if I can keep the cadence alive. Enough waiting. I let myself move into action and follow my nightingale up into the city. She too looks at the gargoyles. She huffs a laugh. A bright sound. It seems to give her a shine.

The glow of the oncoming morning mixes with the fog. Different degrees of grey douse the city in coolness. Her bright yellow raincoat makes her stand out starkly, like a first tulip pushing up through the snow. She mounts her bike and rolls through the streets. I can freely follow. Then she stops. So do I. A few paces behind. But maybe not far enough? Her heartbeat quickens and she glances over her shoulder. She can't see me. But she must somehow know I'm following her. Attentive. And just then, the clouds open and a stray bit of sunlight hits me. "Son of a mother!" I exclaim loudly and before my nightingale can turn fully to look at the danger behind her, I've dissolved into nothing but thin air.