The Mockingbird Statue

From behind a stone column, I watch her.
Flame-light and shadow rapidly dance across her animate face.
She is beautiful and yet sad.
This statue, alone in this otherwise dark, forgotten garden.
The area is overgrown.
It would seem no one has dared to come near in years.
Birds mock her with their singing.
“We are happy. You are alone.”
She breathes a stream of fire at them, but they have nested just barely out of reach.
A loud screech echos off the stone pillars near her as she stretches her heated breath over the garden.
The flames reflect in the whites of her eyes.
She is in pain.
I want to help.
I step toward her and see her eyes quickly shift toward me.
Her stone face does little to mask her anguish.
I ache for her and take another step forward.
She quickly pivots to face me.
A wave of heat hits me like a wall and her scream is piercing.
She will not let me near.
I step backward, attempting to earn her trust.
She soon pivots again, aiming her flame at a new intruder to her space, a lightning bug.
If only I could touch her, I know I could bring her to life; I could stop her pain; I could help her to not be alone.
I step forward and am greeted by another wall of heat and that threatening screech.
She aims to hurt me.
I hurt for her.
Still, I will be consumed if I get too close.

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