Colorless - Part 2, Birdcage

Part 2 - Birdcage

"Green Finch and Linnet Bird, Nightingale, Blackbird,
How is it you sing?
How can you jubilate, sitting in cages, never taking wing?
Outside the skyway's beckoning, beckoning,
Just beyond the bars....
How can you remain, staring at the rain, burdened by the stars?" -- "Green Finch and Linnet Bird," Sweeney Todd


Emily Sutcliff was always an imposing woman. When Grell thought about his mother, he always pictured her the same way...tall, slender, and prim. She had a thin face and what many considered to be a severe look about her, dark hair always pinned neatly back in a bun. Never undone in any way, always cool and collected, always displaying the grace that so befit her abilities with the violin...strong.

Perhaps it was for that reason that it was so difficult for Grell to look at his mother this way...propped in a nest of pillows and white linen sheets, frail as she turned her icy blue gaze upon her son. He didn't have his mother's eyes - he had his father's more common hazel irises, not the ethereal stare that made this woman look so striking.

"Grell," she rasped, her voice still holding dignity despite its hoarseness. "Are your lessons finished for the day?" The young man pulled up a stool near the bedside, clumsily perching atop it and fiddling nervously with the end of his ponytail. When he spoke, it was in a timid, respectful tone, barely heard above the phonograph that sat playing in the corner.

"Yes, Mother. On Tuesdays I have Karl, Aaron, and Matthew, two of whom I sometimes have to take extra time to teach...I didn't mean to keep you waiting." Turning his eyes down towards where he was toying with the ends of his hair, a pang of guilt hit him. Part of the reason he had taken so long was that he hadn't wanted to come home at all - and he knew that wasn't right of him. A sharp tutting sound snapped him from his reverie, looking up in time to catch a stern frown.

"Grell, do stop toying with your hair so. If you must keep long hair, you must behave accordingly as a gentleman - your manner is entirely too feminine. You look like a bored schoolgirl." Jumping, the young man complied, instead folding his hands in his lap.

"Sorry, Mother." She was right, of course. Grell was never the most masculine of boys, taking more after his mother in his pale, delicate looks and preferring more domestic pastimes. His clumsiness certainly didn't help matters...even if he had liked any of the sports his father had encouraged him to try, he was always tripping over his own feet - always getting in the way. Even his love of music had to be carefully accommodated...both parents were experienced musicians, his mother being a violinist and his father a pianist, but it was clear that their son's clumsy fingers would simply not do for either instrument. Years of careful practice had instead trained the one instrument Grell's clumsiness could not drop or break - his voice.

Unfortunately, leaning towards his mother's taste in music, and his timid, gentle personality, had left him a great deal less masculine than either of his parents would have liked. That was the great struggle even now - to get their son to become a proper gentleman.

"Are...are you hungry? Would you like some broth, or some tea?" Suddenly uncomfortable sitting in one place, the young man stood up, furrowing his eyebrows as Emily broke into another fit of coughing. She was very ill, and wasting away...he hated feeling so helpless as he did while sitting at her bedside.

The woman merely shook her head, leaning her head back against the pillows and lightly shutting her eyes. "No...we must be running low on tea by now. Water will suffice...but tend to your father first."

"Yes, Mother." Bobbing his head in acknowledgment, he slipped out the door of the bedroom, pausing to light candles in the hall. The house was small, but respectably furnished...at least, as respectively as it could be at this point. While his parents were well, things weren't so bad - but after his father took ill and was unable to work anymore, it was Grell's music classes alone that attempted to keep the house paid for.

Bustling his way into the kitchen, he fumbled with lighting a lamp, only pausing when the light cast a glare across his glasses, illuminating how poorly the counters had been kept. They had no servants, of course - and with both Emily and her husband ill and bedridden, it was up to their son to keep the house, as well as care for the both of them and keep the family out of debt.

That was the burden that left Grell looking perpetually worried, and what made him lean so against the counter top with exhaustion as he lit the stove. Sighing to himself, he carefully moved a pan of broth onto the burner, staring at it listlessly and waiting for it to heat. His own stomach gave a pitiful growl, but he didn't dare fetch anything for himself until he was finished with the task at hand. "I'm not important," he reminded himself as he dragged himself to pull a bowl from the cabinet and a spoon from the drawer. "I'm just a music teacher...and I'm not sick."


Motions still sluggish, the young man ladled some of the warm broth into the bowl, settling it on a carrying tray with the soup spoon before - very slowly - lifting the whole thing. It was with very, very slow steps that he proceeded down the hall, wincing every time a drop of broth sloshed out onto the tray. His glasses slid down his nose, but there was very little he could do about this - so blindly, he made his way into his father's room, nudging the door open with his toe.


Grell didn't like seeing the state his mother was in - but he HATED going into his father's room. Robert Sutcliff, once so full of life and energy, a bright, cheerful haberdasher...was now lying motionless in his bed. The bright hazel eyes which had always had such fire within them were always shut, his reddish-brown hair that had been so neatly trimmed growing unevenly around his head. The strong shoulders which had once been so often used to carry his son around upon them had withered and grown thin, along with the rest of his body.

Settling the tray upon a side table, Grell's heart wrenched as he forced himself to speak up, breaking the quiet that was only punctuated by his father's laborious breath.

"...Good evening, Father. I...I brought you some broth. I...hope you're hungry...." No answer. There wasn't going to be an answer. He knew the man wouldn't wake up, no matter what he said. Biting his lip, he adjusted his glasses, pulling up a stool at the bedside. This had become routine, in a way...for a couple of months now, he would come in after work to bring dinner to his father...talk to him. In the last month, Robert had ceased to talk back. This forced the conversation upon Grell, and, being a timid person, it was a struggle to find things to talk about.

He wasn't even certain his father could hear him as he spoke again, weary of waiting for a reply that wouldn't come.


"...Mother told me to care for you first...so...I think she's feeling all right tonight. But her coughing is getting much worse...she's sleeping more and more. I wonder how long before she falls asleep, too...I'll have to come home between lessons when that happens to check on you both...."

Taking up the bowl of broth and the spoon, he clumsily settled himself upon the stool, cringing as a little dribble landed on his pant leg. As he carefully lifted a spoonful to his father's lips, he kept speaking in his soft, mumbling way, forcing himself to smile. If his father woke up - if he opened his eyes - it wouldn't do for him to be looking so sad.

"The only reason I don't already come home between lessons is because I know Mother comes in to tend to you. I keep telling her not to...but...." Laughing a sad little laugh, he fed another spoon of broth to his father, taking care not to spill it on him. "You know how Mother gets...she...well, she can't bear to be in one place for so long. I caught her just this morning trying to play her violin. Can you imagine?"

Habitually, he paused, waiting for a response - but, of course, nothing came. Grell's eyes stung with moisture, but he refused to cry, trying to keep his poise. That was important to his family. Poise. Be a gentleman, always. To cry so wasn't masculine.

Biting on his tongue, he went on in silence, unable to speak for fear of his voice betraying his efforts to be strong. Soon enough, the bowl was empty, and he was shuffling from his chair, eager to get out. He loved his father, but he couldn't be there. Not like this. Besides, his mother wanted a drink of water, and he could hear the coughing from down the hall - the record had finished playing.

Hurriedly, he placed the empty bowl and spoon on the counter in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water (and spilling it all over the counter in the process) and bustling down the hall to his mother's room once more. He had to put on a new record. Part of the reason he kept them playing was because his mother loved the music so...but the selfish truth was that, with the music playing, he didn't have to listen so much to the coughing and the gasps for air.

Quickly shuffling up to his mother's bedside, he held out the glass, struggling not to spill it and frustrated that it was already a quarter empty from his trip down the hall. He was clumsy to begin with, but sheer exhaustion was beginning to make his limbs shake...his hands were no longer steady in the least.

"Here you are, Mother. Father has had some broth...are you certain you don't want to eat?" Concern colored his tone, and his smile was awfully fixed, not touching the sadness and worry in his eyes. He watched as his mother slowly sat up, taking the glass with slow motions and shaking her head.

"No, Grell. I'm not hungry. But if you could...replace the record for me?"

Happy to oblige, he shuffled to the phonograph, pulling the needle aside and seeking out the next selection of music. Picking a record with a selection of operatic arias on it, he set it in motion, sighing in spite of himself as it began playing. Turning to leave the room, he meant to finally fetch himself some dinner...but then Emily spoke again, making him stop in his tracks.

"Grell. Could you do something else for me?" The music drifted about the room like a thin fog, and the young man turned about, his smile shaky and his focus placed in the song instead of the way his mother's voice seemed to be giving out.

"Yes, Mother. What is it?" The woman settled back against the pillows again, setting the glass of water aside and folding her hands on her chest. Coughing briefly, she turned tired eyes towards her son before speaking.

"...Sing for me. Please?"

It was a simple request, but still it hurt to be in the room...as Grell moved beside the phonograph and neatly folded his hands before him, it took a moment before he was sure his voice wouldn't shake. Drawing a deep breath and straightening his back, he started to sing along with the record, lightly shutting his eyes as the notes tumbled from his lips. He was an excellent singer, but the atmosphere was choking him - a knot starting to form in his throat threatened his stability.

Behind his eyelids, images formed as he sang - he could see the notes around him, fluttering about like butterflies on the wind. A sharp cough from his mother seemed to agitate them, and they swarmed about angrily, multiplying with each and every line that welled up from within.

Disturbed, he opened his eyes again, allowing his face to fall slightly when he realized the figure on the bed had her eyes shut. He used to enjoy this. When he was teaching, when he was anywhere but here, he still did.

But right then, standing upon this stage of impending debt and illness that his house had become, the spotlight had become a blazing, all-consuming fire...and Grell felt as if he were being lashed to the stake.