I have been kept in the third-floor bedroom of my house for a long time. My friends, the birds, tell me to fly with them. I am afraid. What if they don’t catch me like they promised?

After my mother died, my father was too busy to take care of me, so he had any maid he employed at the time take care of me. When I was diagnosed with an illness, schizophrenia, my father decided to lock me away in a room. I picked the third-floor bedroom because of the birds on the wall. They seemed to speak to me. They would tell me things like what a pretty girl in soft, smoothing lullabies.

Every day, I look out my window and watch life go by. Cars zooming through the streets and kids playing in their yards, I can see from my window. My favorite thing to watch are the birds flying by my window. I wish I could fly with them. When I am feeling sad, the birds on my wall will sing to me. I taught them the song my mother use to sing to me. The song went, “little birdie, where you flying to. Can I come along with you?”

It all began when someone opened the window.

“Can you open the window?” I asked as the maid jumped. I rarely talk.
The maid looked at me with concern, probably for her job. “I don’t know. Your father usually doesn’t allow the window open.”
“I know, but I could really use some fresh air.”
Looking at me now, with a frown upon her face, she said, “I suppose, but I have to close it when I leave.”
I know that look she gave me. Other maids have given it to me before. The maids would look into my big brown eyes and change their smile into a frown. It was like they could see and feel my pain. The maid left in a hurry and forgot to close the window.

I was looking out the window when a fluttering sound came from behind me. Suddenly, birds were flying out the window. I turned around to look at my wall and I noticed that all the birds were off the wall. I watched as the birds soared across the sky forming together like a family. I wanted to join. Creaking and fast footsteps came from outside my door. I look to see my door knob turning and the maid come rushing in.

Pointing to the window, I shouted, “The birds are flying. They came off the wall and flew right out the window!”

This time the maid looked at me differently. With a look that told me I was crazy, the nurse pointed to the wall, “The birds that are on the wall now?”

“They were just flying!”

As the maid closed the window, she told me to lie down.

Later that night, I watched through my keyhole and listened to a conversation the maid and my father had.

“Sir,” the maid said with concern, “I think you should let Sarah out of her room.”

Stopping only for a moment, my father mumbled something and then said with a booming voice that echoed in the empty house, “We went over this already! She will stay in her room! This world can be very cruel, and I don’t need people to ask questions about her.”

In a higher tone, the maid replied, “But sir, Sarah might be going crazy. She has told me about birds flying off her wall-“

I couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation because they went downstairs. I haven’t seen that maid again.

I was mad at the birds! I started to scream at them, “Why did you do that to me. I thought you were my friends! You made me look crazy!”

The birds started to sing a new song, “Open the window.”

“I don’t know how,” I cried from frustration.
All day every day the birds sing out open the window. I don’t know how the maid can’t hear them sing.

My head is starting to hurt. I get no sleep with the birds constantly singing. I scream out for help. My father finally brings a doctor in to check on me.
“Sir your daughter is very sleep deprived,” the doctor said packing up his equipment. “She needs a lot of rest and some fresh air.”
The doctor left. My father didn’t listen. I am still kept in the third-floor bedroom.

I try to ignore the birds but they are always singing. I try to open the window. I bang on the window and pull on the lock, but I can’t get the window open.

“Can you open the window?” I asked the new maid.
This time the maid gave me a strict “NO!” I wasn’t surprised. My father probably told her about the old maid.

I can feel myself giving in. The birds need to stop singing, but they won’t. It seems they are getting louder every day. My head is pounding, and I feel I have to do something drastic.

“Open the window,” the birds harmonized.

“Will you sing for me?” I replied with a throat sore from all the screaming.

“Open the window!”

“I can’t!” I screamed over and over again.

“Open the window!”
I have to do it. There is no other way to drop the birds from singing. The birds tell me they will catch me and make me apart of their family.

When the police arrive, they find a father who is not too distraught and a girl lying on the ground with a peaceful look upon her face. In the house they find a broken third-floor bedroom window. What seems to be the girl’s diary and a wall with birds.