The small apartment felt hollow, it held only a table, a kitchen counter with a microwave, a chair, and a mattress. The kitchen counter was covered in drying works of art and empty take-out containers. The mattress held a mass of blankets and pillows. And at the table sat a young man with hands covered in rainbows and his clothes were covered in paint and clay. He pulled at his hair and glared at an empty canvas. Maybe this wasn’t the right path, I can’t even figure out my next piece. What if I was meant for much greater than this? What if I can’t make a difference, he thought.

Pushing the chair back and trying to avoid the papers scattered on the floor he made his way to the cracked window. Fresh air always helps with stress. The smell of fresh-cut grass and gasoline enveloped the room as a gust of wind pushed through the stale atmosphere of the apartment. A bird sat on the window sill, one of its grey wings covered in blood.

“Oh! What hurt you little birdie?” The artist uttered as he opened the screen and gently picked it up. “How did you get all the way up here with that injury? You couldn’t have flown far.”

Chee-cheep.

He lay the bird on the counter and quickly grabbed a damp cloth, all the summer days spent at Boy Scouts we actually starting to pay off. Cheep-. The bird squeaked as he touched the cloth to its wing, the blood staining his hands like ink. “It’s okay Birdie, I just want to help,” he continued to clean the wing as gently as possible. Once the blood was off the wing he got to work bracing the wing against its body with a thin strip of cloth he found on the table.

Cheep cheep.

“There you go! Soon enough you’ll be good as new.” He smiled while grabbing a small towel and making it into a bed for the bird. Maybe I am on the right track, if I can help a little bird heal then maybe I can help others with my art.