‘Sink’

I’m used to the screams. After a few weeks they were only squeals, really. It’s worth it. Because for those few seconds when I’m flying, I’m no longer creepy, or hairy, or frightening: I’m an angel.

I always knew I didn’t belong with the others. In the long edges of the lawn; under the bricks in the corner; creeping in the privet. As soon as I land in any of those places I begin making my way back. Sometimes the back door is open. Other times, I scuttle up the drainpipe, praying they don’t run the tap. It normally takes me all day to navigate back.

I crouch in the plug hole till it’s light. At six thirty I splay myself at the bottom of the bowl as if I had just fallen there. If it’s the screamer that finds me, I may paw helplessly at the upwards curve of the stainless steel. Makes her feel bad. Keeps me safe.

It’s always the thin girl that gets me out. Always in the same jar. She doesn’t need to nudge me in any more. I wonder if she sees how eager I am to climb into it, like Cinderella getting into her glass carriage. I see the bright light of the back door, the gust as it opens. The hairs on my legs are bristling with the excitement that comes with knowing you’re about to fly.