'Canary'. Rough Draft. Introduction

A darkening gray patch of sky laced with thin whirls of clouds hangs over the pale yellow, quiet house. It stands strong, and solitary, with doors and windows locked up tight, sealing out the picturesque neighborhood. This house is immaculate with touches of care and detail, as if watched over by a gentle ghost: behind the clear windows hang simple white curtains, embroidered in the corners; a ring of moist earth encircles the carnations sprouting from each window box, though the wet and wrinkled petals tucked inside each bud are too weak yet to blossom. The lawn is tidily trimmed, though moss still grows in patches on the shingles.  As the evening darkens, the street light casts a yellow light down the front path, where lonely footsteps click against the stone. The young, thin-framed woman who unlocks the door carries many thoughts in her head, but none at all escape from her mouth. Aside from a sigh that slips into the night, all other expression is hidden behind the walls, as the front door closes securely.

Shoes are kicked into her bedroom closet as she hastily undoes the bun in her hair. She turns on the alarm clock radio sitting on her nightstand, and tosses her work clothes in the wicker hamper. Listening to the weather forecast, she pulls open the rough wooden drawers in her dresser and glances through the neat stacks of folded t-shirts. She lifts a light blue one to her face, inhaling the familiar smell. She lays it on the top of her dresser and selects a pair of old black sweatpants to go with it, and judges it suitable for a casual evening. She steps into the sweat pants and pulls them up without acknowledging her stick-like legs, though she tugs the blue t-shirt over her head unceremoniously.  Glancing down again, she sees it's still very loose on her. She groans, and walks into the bathroom, feeling aggravated that her clothes can't be tight enough to even fool her into believing she had any sort of a figure. On the radio the overly enthusiastic, caffeine-fueled weatherman drones on as she soaks a washcloth in warm water, rubs it against a bar of soap sitting on the counter, and thoroughly scrubs her face with it.

"And all you folks at home better stay inside tonight, there will be strong winds and possibly a thunderstorm brewing up there, depending on your area."

Her makeup leaves streaks on the washcloth, staining her hand as she rings it out. She watches the water dribble down her pale face in the mirror, thin blond hair shining as it hangs down to her collarbone. Her expression is thoughtful and distant for a moment as she recalls a simple memory. Starkly stuffing her face into a dry, fluffy towel, she wipes the droplets and unwanted recollections away. She turns off the lights and her radio, hurrying downstairs.

She grabs a bag of pretzels sitting on the counter, and jumps into the corner seat of the squishy, tan sofa. The living room is simple and traditional: a three-seat sofa sulking in the middle, an island in the center of a tough brown throw-rug, with a floor lamp on either side. An old TV sits atop of a wooden entertainment center, complete with an old VCR, old CDs, VHSs, all shelved neatly behind the translucent cabinet doors. Pressing the remote button, the TV turned on with a whine, and the news flickered onto the screen. Munching away on the pretzels, she smiled, recalling that she had just watched this very segment in real time. The anchor and his co-host chattered away about a restaurant that burned to the ground several days ago, in the middle of the night. After wishing well to the owners, the anchor, clad in a blue suit with shining blond hair perfectly styled, flashed a smile at the screen. She blushed, and paused ruminatively, before changing the channel. The wind began to howl outside; while she bitterly laughed along with a sitcom she had never heard of.

As the witty dialogue and the frequent use of a laugh track sounds from the living room and the TV casts eerie shadows on the wall, the wind picks up, pounding against the walls of the house. The trees rattle and whine against the ebony-gray sky, while their leaves are ripped from their stems and whisked away, hurriedly dancing on riptides of air. The glass panes shudder from the force of the storm. She glances over towards them, but quickly returns her attention to the TV, as the shabby NYC apartment the characters were sitting in has flickers out to grainy white and black speckles.  She hits the TV twice with her palm before switching it off and strolling to the back door. She's startled by a pop, and looks back to see that the lamp short-circuited. Switching on the back light and unlocking the door, she leaves without bothering with shoes or a coat. She shuts the door securely behind her, lets the screen door slam, and strides calmly into the darkness.

The grass is clammy and cold against her bare feet, as she attempts to walk steadily down the slope of the backyard. At the bottom grows a tall oak tree, in front of which is an old gold-fish pond that hadn't had a single resident in years, apart from water striders and a dragon fly or two. Last she had checked, algae occupied most of it, floating along the surface and clotting between rocks. Beneath the surface, about three feet down, frog spawn used to cloud the bottom in the very center, but no frogs had warbled the house to sleep for many summers. Next to this tree, however, stood a telephone pole, nailed to which was the gray box that controlled the electricity for her house, and resetting it would be a simple task that she had to do once or twice before. The wind blows her hair over her shoulders, while she continues blindly stumbling down the hill towards it. A sudden gust of wind startles her and knocks her off balance, as she struggles to gain control of her feet. Wet grass chills her ears slips against the back of her neck as she hits the ground, the steep hill rolling her forward. She is painfully aware of the moment that the bottoms of her feet touch down, and stands up stiffly. Desperate, she fights to regain her balance, but she staggers a step forward when her bare foot catches a sharp rock. Her ankle spasms painfully as she lurches downward at the greenish water of the pond. Air rushing in her ears and arms thrashing desperately, she squeezes her eyes shut before feeling the ice cold splash; an instant later, a sickening crack sounds, as her forehead collides with a rock bordering the opposite side. Her body goes limp, and a deathly stillness creeps over her ragdoll limbs as her face too sinks beneath the murky water.