I wrote this sometime this summer. It’s a journal entry in it’s own way. Roughly and quickly written.
There’s a vulture on my fence. It’s been there day-in, day-out for the last week, ever since I moved into my new house and graduated high school. Sometimes, I feel like it’s been with me longer but I can’t explain where the feeling comes from. There’s a vulture on my fence. His body is as dark as the night and he’s always quiet, patient, and watching. I know he’s been with me longer but I can’t remember him. I swear he’s watching me, but maybe it’s just paranoia.
There’s a vulture on my window ledge. He’s watching me now. I know it. I was looking at childhood pictures upstairs and when I looked up towards the window, I saw his eyes staring back at me. I went back to looking at dreams and passions long-abandoned and he never left. When I went to sleep that night, he was outside my bedroom window. I think he’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what.
His presence is eerie but comforting.
There’s a vulture staring at me as I read my childhood journal. It’s 10 AM and I’m lying in bed thinking about what I’ve lost out on. I wanted to be a chef once, but I never really got to cooking. I wanted to be an artist, but the last time I painted was sometime in middle school. I cry over the unfulfilled dreams of an idealistic child, and the whole time the vulture stares at me. He looks bigger than he did yesterday. There’s a vulture on my fence. I’m eating dinner with my family, but my mind is elsewhere. I’m thinking about lost friendships, broken hearts, and what-could-have-beens. The whole time, he’s staring at me. I turn to look at him, and he keeps staring. My family looks at me oddly, maybe they just don’t care about the vulture.
The Vulture stole my journals. I’d left the window open when it was raining to feel the drops on my skin when he swooped in, grabbed my journals, and flew out. He was a lot bigger than he was yesterday, and he knocked me on my back when he flew in. I didn’t get up for a while. Then I went to sleep.
The Vulture is gone now. I hope he’ll be back, I want my journals back. I liked reading them. I’ll move into college in two months, and I’d like to reminisce a little before I move out and away from my family, from my what-could-have-beens.
It’s been a week. I remember the Vulture now. He was there when I moved to Minnesota. He was there when I moved to Hyderabad. He was there when I moved to New Jersey and had my adolescent heart crushed. He was there when I moved south to a place I didn’t really fit in. When I switched schools. When I was stuck inside for a year. He was there then. I remember seeing his massive body outside my window while I wrote. Now he’s gone, and he took my journals with him. He’s been in my past a lot. I wonder why.
His absence is haunting.
It’s been two weeks. He came back today. The journals were left outside my window. When I went to grab them, he scratched my left hand once. It was the closest I had been to him, and this time he looked even bigger than before, about six feet tall and towering over my crouching body. I went back inside, closed the door, and he didn’t leave.
There’s a Vulture on my fence. He’s watching me. I think he’s waiting for something. I don’t know what.