Carry on

Some silly. But not really.

Update: someone pointed out the turn this story takes. If you ended up here by “accident”: this is a horror story. I only know the one kind, sorry.

---

The first girl I ever loved was named Shane. 

She was tall and slim, features as soft as a feather. Even now, my mind can pick out the route my eyes took taking her in: a dimple as she smiled, up to the beauty mark on the raised hill of her cheek, touching on the warm mahogany of her eyes, until I came to rest on her hair. Shorter than most, not quite reaching her shoulders. Chestnut, apart from a few blonde locks in front. 

Like a sudden cold patch, it gave me shivers, that streak of light. 

It still does.

This was seventh grade but even back then you had these little “relationships” between the popular kids. You know, this one was with that one for a few days (or weeks, if it was going really well), walking around with hands shoved in each other’s back pockets, the boys watching as their girls did their little dance routines during recess. Maybe some light making out when the monitors were out of sight. Then the inevitable breakup and tears. And a week or so after that, the shuffle made new couples— until everyone had had everyone, at least once. 

Except for Shane. I mean, she was one of the popular kids, but for some reason she was never part of the dance. Maybe because the teacher yelled at her a lot for being slow. Maybe because she wore glasses during class. Maybe it was the accent I thought sounded foreign but might’ve been a speech impediment. 

I don’t know. 

All I do know is that, to me, she was the most beautiful girl of them all. And I was glad she had no part of the “schoolyard shuffle”. She was picky. She deserved to be picky. And I hoped she’d pick me.

I wrote her letters. Desperate, burning pleadings that started with “Dearest” and “Sweetest”. Some of them may have rhymed. Some people look back on that sort of thing with embarrassment or regret, but I don’t. Heart on my sleeve, raw nerve of desire— that was me. 

Even when she let her friends read them and they laughed at me, I wasn’t upset. She was popular; she had to play by the rules. It was my fault for letting a friend deliver them, chickenshit that I was. It was my fault for giving them to her at school, when I could have given them to her as we walked back from school along old Mr Fredericks farm. A mile, every day, staring at the back of her, drowning sour-sweet with every step.

During winter break, I used my gift money to buy her the Spice Girls CD’s and a bag of candy I knew she liked. Wrapped everything myself, went through a roll and a half to get everything just right. And I wrote her a letter, of course. Penned with excruciating care on blue stationary studded with clouds. 

Brian was supposed to deliver the gifts during recess but he was out sick with the flu. The entire day I sat at my desk, all nerves and boiling blood, yearning to give her the gift and watch her eyes light up with pleasure. Knowing I wouldn’t.

I carried my agonies home with me, boots tramping the frozen earth in fits and starts as I replayed dream and inevitable reality on a loop. Beneath the smoky sky I stared across the fields tucked in with frost, named myself a coward on clouded breath. A loser. On and on I went, lashing myself with words. Until I heard a crunching step behind me. 

Turning, I found her, standing a few feet down the path. When I’d missed her after school, I figured she’d gotten a ride home from one of the other parents on account of the cold. But then I remembered she had the math tutor on Mondays after school. I’d been so wrapped up in my misery that an hour had passed and she had caught up to me. Now she stood looking at me with mild amusement.

“Are you… talking to yourself?”

I couldn’t answer. The words caught on the dimples that punctuated her smile, melted in the blush the freezing air had dabbed on her cheeks. The blonde locks were gone, tucked beneath the wool-knit cap. If not, my heart might have leaped straight through the bars of its bony prison. 

When I stayed silent, she offered me an uncomfortable expression, started pushing past. 

A strangled sound came from my throat. She paused. Turned. Looked at me with expectation. 

“I have—“ I slid off the backpack, undid the clasps. “I have a gift. For— for Christmas. And just— Because.” I finished, holding out the packages, breath puffing out in the air between us.

She almost took them. I could see the want, the curiosity in her eyes. But at the last moment, she withdrew her hand. 

“You should give it to someone else,” she said, serious. After a pause, she added: “Someone that likes you.”

I smiled, confused. Why was she saying this? There was nobody else around; it was just us. She could be honest with me, speak the truth that I knew burned in her heart as much as it did in mine. 

What spilled so effortless onto the page, stuck in my throat. With an almost inhuman effort, I pulled it up from the depths, until it spilled from my lips: “But I love you.”

She gave me an awkward laugh. “You don’t even know me, Philip. You should find someone else to give it to.” Her eyes flicked to the offerings I was still holding out, returned to mine again. “And you should stop sending me letters. It’s creeping everybody out.”

The message was a knife that did not miss its mark. But it was the departing glance she gave me that hurt more, drove the point home in a way mere words never would’ve managed. There was no fear or doubt or regret. Only the same pitying look she’d once given me when Wesley beat me up in front of the entire sixth grade, before signing his handiwork by hawking a loogie on my face, burning with shame.

It was there and gone, occluded by some other elusive emotion as I took a step towards her. To this day, I wonder what she saw. I regret not asking her.

She ran and I followed. It wasn’t exactly a fair race because she still had the backpack on, but I think I would’ve won either way. I wanted it more. We went down on the frozen dirt, her jacket puffing her scent into my face. I could feel her, underneath the thick layers, my insides turning liquid with the excitement of our first touches.

I took her into the field, where I made my devotion clear.

---

It didn’t take them long to find her, of course. The TV was blowing up with the story. Even some of the national networks had picked up the story. My parents followed all of it with horror, telling me it was done with walking home from school from now on. Which was fine by me. It would only make me sad to walk that mile now.

While Mom went on and on about how a thing like that could happen in a town like ours, I watched the footage with a strange kind of fascination. I was sad. Heartbroken. Watching as the white suits brought the stretcher with its covered payload out of the rime-crusted field, I wished I could’ve seen her one last time, whispered my love for her in the dark of my soul. But seeing the scene unfold, I felt another kind of flutter in my hollow places— not altogether unpleasant.

It surprised me, as did the manner in which I moved my way through the police interview. They were bound to darken our doorstep, drawn by the information Shane’s friends shared about my letters. So, when I told the two detectives that yes, I had written some letters and yes, I had been in love with Shane, but had since moved on, I wasn’t lying. From the way they kept pressing me on the contents of the letters, I surmised that Shane hadn’t kept any of them. It poured hot iron into my gut, made me nauseous. How could she? When one of them asked me if I was okay, I told them I was just sad about Shane, is all.

Just as clever I managed to sidestep the issue of my walking from school along the same route as Shane. She had the tutor on Mondays, of course. But just to make sure, I said I went to the candy store after school. I even had the bag to prove it. Nobody was more flabbergasted than me when the proprietor corroborated my story. Heart of winter, every kid dressed in puffy jackets and wool caps, it would’ve been harder for him to say he hadn’t seen me.

“Don’t you worry, bud,” one of the detectives said at the end of the interview. “We’ll catch the guy who did it.”

But they never did. Not on their own, anyway.

---

Since Shane, there have been six others. One of which I loved almost as much as I loved her. I got better at showing them how much they mean to me, keeping us together for as long as I could before life drove us apart— leaving me heartbroken and despondent again. 

At first I waited to see what consequences my passions would bring. But in time I grew bolder, desperate to fill the hole unrequited love left behind. Years passed without knocks at the door, without questions, without so much as a look in my direction. My devotions went unnoticed by everyone.

Except for the birds.

They showed up after my second love left me. When I got rid of her possessions one night, a couple weeks after she left, I heard a harsh cry in the tree at the end of the driveway. Peering up into the branches, I didn’t see anything, until something stirred and a shadow tore free from the others. A crow hopped onto the branch, peered at me sidelong, before it opened its beak to give another rusted call. 

Urging it to quiet, I tried to shoo it off. Instead it fluttered down from its perch, planted itself on the ground before me. Peering up at me, it offered another hoarse caw. 

I kicked out, tried to get it to leave. But it ducked my foot, started pulling at the garbage bag in my hand, tearing into the plastic. Panicked, I dropped the bag and kicked out again. 

This time, I managed to hit the bird, which took up in a clappering of wings, cursing me all the way. I stared into the dark night sky, heart hammering in my chest. What had happened, felt like a warning. Looking down at the bag, I decided it would be best to take it down to the restaurant up the block, toss it in the dumpster out back.

Life went on. I don’t remember seeing it much after the incident with the garbage bag but looking back, I know it must have been close by. Because a month or so after my third love, I glanced out the bedroom window to find two crows sitting on the branches of the tree.

It was weird, in a curious, humorous kind of way. It didn’t even register as a strange coincidence. And besides, I wasn’t even thinking about anybody else back then, not after the pain the last one had caused me. 

After my fourth breakup, I began to notice the crows. It’s not that they were always there… but enough to register. I was puzzled by how often my eyes happened on one, or a clustering, as I drove around or whenever I glanced out the window at the office. Their black shapes, perched on the sagging power lines like clothespins, sitting in crooked rows along the rooftops. Peering out from the branches of nearby trees. 

It’s not that I made the connection— not then. That happened when I fell in love again, in the summer of 2011. 

We’d met at the grocery store. A chance meeting in the frozen aisle, which brought to mind Shane. The way she tucked her shoulder-length hair behind one ear picked out yet another bittersweet note that thrummed in my heart, and in that moment, I knew we were meant to be together forever.

Yet even while we explored one other, the crows wouldn’t leave us to our enjoyment. From the trees and the neighbouring roofs, the noise penetrated the walls. Their sharp, incessant arguments pecked and peeled, laid my nerves bare, until I— Until she left me. 

By then I was sure the crows had come because of my… amorous activities. When I drove my lady home, they looked down from the rooftops in uncharacteristic silence. Staring up at the countless black eyes, I felt a diffuse sort of emotion I hadn’t experienced since leaving home. Trying to get at it was like tonguing the hole where a tooth used to be. I rushed to get out from under the weight of it, afraid of what would happen if I lingered there.

If I still had any doubt I was the crows’ main concern, it faded as soon as I left the driveway and I saw them take to the darkening skies in great, ragged clouds. Rounding the corner, I could see them in the side mirror, drifting in my wake. They stayed with me as I weaved through the maze of the suburban streets. 

Getting nervous now, I sped up. With dismay I saw they kept up, so after a few minutes, I put the pedal down. After a near collision blowing through a red light, I tore into downtown, heading for the skyscrapers. After a few turns, I lost sight of them but I drove around for another few blocks, eyes flicking between the windshield and the mirrors, watching for movement in the sky. When I was sure they were gone, I parked the car by the side of the road.

I had the steering wheel in a death grip for almost ten minutes, the realisation of how close I’d just come to a catastrophe sinking in.

A shaking hand peeled itself free, passed over my face. Following. They were following me. Trying to find out where I— 

I tried to tell myself I was being crazy. But I knew I was right. The sightings, the noises. And now this. The crows were trying to catch me out. My mind thumbed through mental file cabinets, came up with a dozen half-remembered facts about them. Intelligent, loyal. They were supposed to be soul-keepers or guardians. Or was it guides? Or was all that just some bullshit I’d seen in a movie or read in a book? I didn’t know. 

All I did know was that a flock of crows was called a murder. And that, I didn’t like in the slightest. I decided it would be best to stay on my own— at least for a little while. What happened had been too close for comfort. And no amount of affection was worth all that.

Or so I thought.

Two months later, I came out of the drugstore and froze, seeing the ghost walking across the street. Someone touched my arm and I jumped, smiled as the woman handed me the bag I had dropped. Then I scanned the sidewalk, almost sure I’d dreamed the entire thing, when I saw the dress slip behind the corner of the street.

Before I knew it, I cut between the parked cars, almost got clipped by a car. I held up a distracted hand and started running.

Around the corner I pulled back. The woman was a few stores down, looking into the window. Pretending to be perusing a restaurant menu, my eyes scrutinised, weighed. Almost dismissed when she turned and I stared into the face of a girl I’d last seen on a cold January day in 1998— now impossibly alive and grown into the gorgeous woman I’d always known she’d become.

Powerless, I watched her come towards me. I could almost feel myself shrinking, the years sloughing off until I was twelve again, holding out the gifts I had spent all my money on. A deep cavern opened, filled with a hurt too immense to allow in and I stumbled, took down the sign outside the restaurant.

Then her hand was on my arm. 

“Are you alright?” she asked, and my face screwed up at hearing that same lilt in her voice. 

She swam up to me. Brown eyes filled the world, pushed away all other considerations. I felt her breath on my face as she said: “Can I get you anything?”

Tell me, what would you have done?

I recognised my mistake as soon as we drove up the street. 

The crows were waiting for us. By the hundreds they sat on the rooftops and in the trees along the road— a dark honour guard observing our passage. They’d been around for weeks but never like this. Staring out through the windshield, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Distracted, I made a mistake. My love, no doubt disturbed by the sight of the birds, made to run. I tried to reason with her and in my desperation, chose all the wrong avenues.

In the wake of her departure, I sat behind the wheel, unable as yet to register the depths of her callousness, when the first of the crows landed on the hood of the car, making me jump. The horn bleated and I cringed, at once aware of what was at stake. 

Even so, I almost screamed when something tapped on the roof of the car. Another bird joined the one on the hood. More tappings on the roof.

Jolting from my shock, I hit the gas and swerved up the street, almost clearing the garbage cans from the sidewalk. The flock of birds followed, wings slapping against the windows, blocking my view. I switched on the windshield wipers, trying to get them off the glass, when I heard a caw next to me. 

One of the birds had gotten inside through the passenger-side door, which was still swinging from when she tried— From when she left. It was perched on the bundle in the passenger seat, glaring at me. After a glance at the road, I struck out at the crow, managed to hit it hard enough for it to tumble back through the opening with a surprised cry. 

Looking back at the road, my heart skipped a beat, seeing I was driving on someone’s lawn. Jerking the wheel, I just missed the fence between the houses but the back of my car slammed against a tree, hard enough to shatter one of the windows. 

The crash had cleared the birds off the car. After a stunned beat or two, I reached out and pulled the door shut. Then I hit the gas again, driving as fast as I dared to put some distance between me and the birds. 

This time I didn’t go into downtown. That had been suicidal. Instead, I turned onto the highway, lead the blasted things out of town and into the woods, where I at last managed to lose them underneath the canopy. It was dark by then. I took my time finding a suitable place for what came next. 

I cried while I worked. Again I was alone. But worse, destined to remain that way. Twice now, the crows had made it impossible to love. Impossible to be with the one he needed. Worse, they seemed hell-bent on drawing attention to me. 

I had been scared before. Now I was downright terrified. Whatever else, I couldn’t break the rules again. Who knows what would happen next time?

So I worked and as I worked, I cried. For another unrequited love. For the love that would be forever out of reach now. The crows had made it clear and I would listen. I would.

---

But two weeks later, I slipped again. Even though they were watching me. A sordid affair, not even worth the trouble played out in an alley beneath their gaze.

They chased me from the alley in a fury of wings, and I wandered the streets for hours, disgusted with how easily I had given my heart away. With how eager I had damned myself.

---

And then it was too late. Failing to heed the warning, it was all over.

A week or two passed in relative quiet. But with each passing day, more and more crows showed up outside. They flocked to the trees, they crowded on the rooftops. They strutted on the lawn and perched on my mailbox. They covered my car in bird droppings and scratched up the paint.

I closed the blinds. It didn’t help. Caws sounded day and night. When I turned up the TV, I heard them rustling and squawking in the chimney, sending down drifts of soot. At night I heard them tapping on the roof, keeping watch.

Weeks passed. Even with headphones and earplugs, I was exhausted. Standing in front of my bedroom window, I with hollow eyes at the birds scouring the scarred lawn for breakfast, while the others looked on from their resting places. A siege.

Trying to wear me down. And succeeding.

Because the noise was only part of it. Over the previous days, the crows had grown bolder. One morning I woke to find a bloody star in a kitchen window. They hadn’t managed to break through but the sight of it chilled me to my bones. I put up some plywood, only to find two more shattered upstairs. 

There were splintered gouges in the wood of the front door. Constant noises in the chimney. The flue was closed but still. If they wanted to get in, they would get in. And it was getting harder and harder to leave the house; I hadn’t been at the office in days. The crows stirred as soon as I opened the door, followed me wherever I went. 

What then? Move? The birds would follow. I knew it as sure as I knew why they’d come. 

All night I sat, listening to the rustles and the scuffs coming from the chimney, thinking. It would only get worse. If I didn’t act soon, they were going to break down the windows with sheer numbers and then—

Eternal damnation. My price for the hearts I’d broken. The price for the loves I’d failed to keep.

I cried. Because I knew this was the way it had to end. I couldn’t be alone. I couldn’t, I couldn’t. And I couldn’t take my own life because that, too, was a sin.

But maybe I could be made to stop. Maybe I could atone for what I’d done. If I was willing.

It took three more sleepless nights before I was.

---

“Why now?” The detective wanted to know.

I told him the truth.

He told me to start from the beginning.

---

The trial was an exercise in frustration. It dragged on and on for months. Most of what the prosecution accused me of were lies and misinterpretations that made me furious, yet I kept quiet, balled my hands in tight, trembling fists under the table, until my palms bore near-permanent red half-moons. 

The pro deo they got me kept angling for the insanity plea but I refused. Halfway through the trial, the D.A. extended a deal that had my lawyer jumping with joy. I shot that down as well. He was shocked. Didn’t I understand how lucky a break this was? I could’ve told him that was the problem: I’d been lucky for far too long. But I wouldn’t. Like the cops, this worn-out man in his cheap suit had been jotting down every word that came out of my mouth, nodding away, all the while thinking I was just another head case in need of a padded room and a psychotropic regiment. So I let him go through the whole spiel about a client’s best interests, not paying much attention. Through the window behind him, I could see the tree in the crook of the courthouse’s elbow, bare branches reaching for the February sky. A handful of dark leaves clung fast, despite the rain and bitter wind, watching me with hateful intent. Hoping, along with the sad little man, that I would get lucky again.

In the end, he relented. I think that he might have been more surprised than me, hearing the verdict. Of course, he was pleased, whereas I had to be dragged off kicking and screaming before one of the deputies pulled a taser and left me writhing on the courtroom floor, pissing myself. Lying there, I wished they would shoot me. Just get it over with.

My lawyer was right. The prosecution’s case had been weak. Despite my best recollections, the detectives had been unable to find the— Hadn’t been able to locate my exes. Of everything that had happened, this upset me the most. I had given every last scrap of information, drawn maps, described the places they were looking for. We drove up to some of the old places, even though walking around with them spoiled the experience— like someone playing sour notes while an angelic voice works its way through a heartrending aria. Still, they found nothing. I suspected they’d been playing some mental game; a trap to be sprung mid-trial. But no. There were no bodies, no physical evidence. Nothing. It kept me up nights, staring up at the ceiling of my prison cell. In those dark hours, I almost convinced myself I was insane. 

I might have gotten lucky again, if not for Shane, who hadn’t disappeared. Along with the details I was able to supply and my signed confession, the jury had no other choice to find me guilty of the crime. And yet, by some cruel happenstance, they still ruled it an act of a mentally unstable mind. I was to be remanded to a forensic psychiatric facility to serve out my sentence— such as it was.

The crows watched from the courthouse rooftops as I shuffled along with the rest of the prisoners. They knew. I yelled that it wasn’t my fault. Then one of the guards dug his club in my gut, told me to shut it.

---

For weeks I was conflicted about what to do next. I had to atone for what I’d done, try to save my soul from eternal damnation. But to assure I did the time I deserved I would need to do something drastic. The instrument of my salvation was hidden in a slit of the mattress, waiting for the opportune moment. 

What stayed my hand was therapy. Try as I might to ignore the baiting and prodding, some of it still bled through. During a group session, one of the counsellors said we cannot change what we have done but we can make sure it doesn’t happen again. Instead of punishing ourselves, we should look for ways to use what we did to help others not to make the same mistakes.

That night, I lay awake, replaying the words. Helping others instead of punishing. It made sense. Was getting myself locked up truly a redemptive act? Even if I had managed to get the full ride, my incarceration would have been a passive suffering, moving through the years without effort, sacrificing only my freedom. Would that satisfy the birds and whatever master they served? Reading my bible, I doubted it.

So, after months of silence, I began to take an interest in my fellow inmates and what had brought them to such dire circumstances. I offered my insights, gave advice where I could. During cell-time, I studied the Good Book. Once a week, I attended service in the chapel where, over the course of my years, I brought in a great many wayward souls.

Through my efforts I became a welcome sight to the staff and the other inmates. Which was not my motivation but it’s nice to be appreciated for the work you do. 

The only one who never thawed was the doctor. Week after week Hendricks listened to my labours with disinterest, one finger curled against his chin, before starting on his infernal questions again. Determined to string up his distasteful theories, dredge up a past that no longer seems like it belongs to me. Willing me to bent the knee at his altar. But I have a higher power watching me. I cannot hope to escape their judgement with conversations.

Our silent battles were destined to continue, had the man not fallen ill. Another doctor was installed. A woman. After our first conversation, I walked to my cell and laid down on my bunk, one arm draped across my eyes. Behind my closed eyes, dark wings took flight. Sharp beaks opened and shut, gave voice to hoarse cries, more and more, bleeding together until there was only a harsh buzzing that threatened to burst my skull like a piece of overripe fruit. Pressing my hands against my temples, I curled up on my stiff sheets like a child.

In my torment I found myself missing Hendricks. Trapped in the well of night, some of his theories echoed, stirred the stagnant water covering the deeper layers of my mind. I felt close to a revelation then. But as my hands plunged into the muck and tried to bring it up, the enormousness of it send tremors out from the centre of my being, threatening to pull me down into the black along with it.

The night’s experiences had left me weak and confused so when I sat in the doctor’s office, I thought must have misunderstood. But no. Somehow, I was to be released.

I pleaded. I made my case. It didn’t work. Confident and patient, they explained that so long as I took my medication and kept up the good work, everything would be fine. 

My family had a cabin by the lake, a ramshackle construction on a small plot of land my father had managed to square away before the trial began and Shane’s family came for their due. They arranged for me to stay there after my release but neither deigned to speak to me; all our communications had gone through a lawyer. They gave me a year. After that I had to be gone.

One way or another, I aimed to be.

I took the bus, all my earthly possessions tucked in a suitcase and a cardboard box sitting on the seat next to me. Through the window I watched as the crows travelled with us. A great, black swarm racing against the blue sky. 

A great murder.

During my time in the hospital, I had made a study of the crows and their meaning. I didn’t get much wiser, since most of the internet seems hell-bent on confusing and contradicting. But I did end up with an interesting consideration: what would hurt most being picked apart by the crows in this life, or having my liver torn out every day for the rest of eternity?

Something told me I would find out soon.

Because I had tried everything. I apologised. I tried to sent letters to the families through my lawyer, who refused delivery after reading them. Accepted my responsibility and punishment. Tried to live my life in the service of others. What more could I do? 

I rested my forehead against the cool glass. I could feel them pressing close, the walls of the labyrinth that had defined most of my pathetic, miserable life. If only I could conceive of it. If only—

Instead, all I could think about was the doctor and how much she had reminded me of the one that had been taken from me. 

I walked the last mile up the rutted, potholed road that led to the lake, stirring the thick sludge of my thoughts. Up in the trees, the crows rustled and flapped, keeping pace with me. But my fear had gone. Apart from the occasional caw, the birds kept their distance, as if they knew I had come here to die.

In the box I had everything to make a decent final meal. Steak with pepper sauce, albeit the powdered kind. A fair bottle of shiraz. A pack of cigarettes that had cost a small fortune. And my recording of La Traviata. I was going to make dinner, spend the evening getting good and drunk, listening to Joan Sutherland’s Violetta, until I was ready to face what comes next.

But even that small kindness was destined to go unfulfilled. The gas range had been disconnected since the last time I’d been up here, pulled from the wall, it’s top caked with dirt. Although there was power, I couldn’t find a CD-player. All I had was a formica table and a single chair. Not even a glass to drink from.

With some creativity, I managed to opened the bottle. Beneath the light of a bare bulb, I drank a toast to myself, chasing it with a cigarette that didn’t seem worth the price. In the screen of smoke I travelled through my life— a journey so quick and sharp it left cuts behind. 

All the while, the crows strutted up and down on the roof, their rusty calls tumbling down the flagstone chimney. Waiting. Waiting until I was ready.

As evening fell, only a crumpled pack and dregs remained. I got up on rubber legs and moved to the swaying back door. The last cigarette was still between my lips, tumbled to the ground when I tripped over my own feet. I decided it was for the best. 

The evening air pressed cool lips to my flushed skin. Through the trees, I could see the lake, the setting sun setting fire to its furrowed surface. I remembered a raft there, long ago. I recalled playing on it with other children, one group trying to keep the other off in some sort of pirate game. The memory brought back the sensation of feet on its sunbaked boards as skeins of water slopped across its tilting surface. How simple life had been, how clear its rules. No nuance, no unreadable looks or puzzling gaps you had to think your way around. Just— keep them off the raft.

I turned away from the lake. Behind the cabin was a small clearing. From the trees making up its edge, they stared down at me. Hundreds of them, spread across the pine boughs, black feathers dipped in the blood of the lowering sun. Except for a furtive movement here and there, they watched me in expectant silence. 

My head swam and for a beat or two, I thought I would be sick. I concentrated, willing the roiling to pass, because I did not want to die smelling my own sour vomit. When it passed, I stepped forward. Some of the crows stirred. There was a low cry. Otherwise, they waited to see what I would do.

Reaching the center of the clearing, I raised my eyes to them and, with deliberate slowness, began to raise my arms until they were level with my shoulders. Awaiting my crucifixion.

I flinched when they left the trees but I stood my ground. Even when the world grew dim and filled with the snap and clapper of black wings and the air rang with piercing cries, and my nostrils filled with the dry, musky scent of bird feathers, I didn’t move. My eyes trembled close, waiting for the first blade to find its resting place.

Time lost itself in the rush of blood, until I became aware the noises around me had ceased. Eyes fluttered open—

To see the birds had taken place in the trees again. Frowning, I stared at them. Until soft caw drew my attention. I looked down and found a single crow sitting in the grass a few feet away. Something lay on the ground between us. The crow pecked at it, then stared back up at me, tipping its head.

As in a dream, I reached out and picked up the object, feeling supple leather. A purse. 

After some rummaging, I found a wallet. When I opened it, the cards were still inside, along with almost 200 dollars. The ID was in the top slot but there was no need to remove it to read the name. I knew who it was. 

Lowering the wallet, I stared at the crow. It stared right back at me, opened its beak to give voice another rusted cry. It was strange. All this time I thought the calls had sounded offended. Vengeful, even. Yet, standing in the gathering shadows, I remembered my missing loves, the disappearing evidence. Maybe—

The crow cawed again. 

I smiled, hearing it plain now. Not anger but eagerness. Impatience.

When I nodded, the bird unfolded its wings and launched itself in the air. On its signal, the others exploded from the pines anew, took to the evening skies in a great dark flurry, swirling indecisive for a few seconds, before heading north. 

I watched until they were gone from view. Then I slipped the wallet back into the purse and walked back to the house to get my suitcase. I hoped I could still catch a ride at this late hour. 

Walking down the road there’s a spring in my step that has been gone for almost a decade. I had a feeling I’d found my new love the moment I met her. Now that the crows confirm it, how can I refuse? And just imagine how pleased the good doctor will be when I return her purse. She’ll know we were meant to be. And if not— Well, birds gotta eat.