The Crow's Caw

1.

     It’s time.

     You know what to do.  You’ve been pushed too far.  Made a little crazy.  Okay, maybe more than a little.  Maybe a lot.  Maybe full-on psycho, even.

     Still.  Life can’t go on like this.  It just can’t.  You’ve tried.  Hell, you’ve tried for sixteen years, but you’re tired.  Damn tired.  It’s gotta stop.  No more pain.  No more tears.  Tonight, everything’s gonna change.  You’re gonna change.  Gonna square things with everyone who’s hurt you.

     Well, not everyone.  Haven’t got time.  Only a small window.  Halloween.  Dia de los Muertos.  One chance to do it right. So you’ll pick the two who hurt you most.  And you’ll do it.  Yeah.

     You’ll do it right.

     Ease out of bed.  Quiet and slow.  Don’t make a sound.  Everyone’s sleeping, because no one celebrates Halloween in this house.  Still.  You have to prepare.  Get ready.  Or tonight won’t go right.  At all.

     Kneel on the floor.  Reach under the bed.  Pull out that six inch ginsu knife you bought at Old Man Handy’s Pawn Shop for a buck last week.  Can’t use one of Mom’s knives.  She’d notice it missing. This one’s good, though.  Sharpened up real nice.  It’ll do fine.

     You straighten.  Lay the blade flat against your open palm. Press its edge into the meat.  Don’t break the skin.  Not yet.  Just feel the  blade’s icy kiss.

     Close those eyes.  Breathe deep.

     It’s time. No one’s going to hurt you…ever again.

*

     Later, you find her quickly enough.  She always comes up here to the cliffs when she’s upset.  And of course she’s upset.  After what happened, who wouldn’t be?

     Failed love hurts.  But that’s a grownup thing. Something no one really thinks about at your age. 

     This is worse. 

You guys fooled around for hours in the back of her Daddy’s Camry.  Lots of hot and sweaty groping.  You did all the right things.  Kissing.  With lots of tongue.  Squeezing.  Petting.  But when it came time for lift-off…

     Engine failure.  No ignition.

     Nothing.

     It makes sense, now.  After all those other dark and sweaty nights with HIM, she was the first one you wanted who wanted you back.  Easy to see how things could get confusing.  Scary, even, because you worried that halfway through it wouldn’t be like you’d always imagined, but just another reminder of those hard grinding nights with HIM.

     Plus, Angie and you have been friends forever.  Real friends.  Pals, since you first met in Junior Church.  You and Angie have shared everything.  Stories.  Dreams.  Nightmares.  She’s the only who knows about HIM, about how you’re scared you’ll never be normal because of HIM.

     She offered, of course. So you could see what it was like.   And, even though it took her awhile to convince you, in the end it was easy. 

     Let’s be honest. 

     You love her.  Have forever.  And that scarlet red hair, glimmering jade eyes and stacked chest?  C’mon.  What’s to think about?

     But when your rocket didn’t fire…Angie did the last thing you expected.

     She laughed.

     Called you “limp dick”.

     Asked if maybe she should’ve brought a Bible.  Quoted some scripture. Is that what you needed to get hot?  Some Holy Rollin’ Hellfire? 

She lost it, then.  Laughed so hard she cried, because of course that’s something else you guys share.

HIM. 

He’d been teaching Junior Church back when you first met Angie. He’d been practicing his Holy Devotions on her, too.

     So that’s why she laughed and couldn’t stop until you backhanded her across the face hard and whipped her head all the way around.  She stopped laughing, then.  Real quick.

     You ran.  She screamed words you can’t remember, but their anger still cuts you.  That was weeks ago.  You haven’t spoken since.  And you know.  For a while you didn’t want to admit, but now you know.

     Things will never be the same.  Ever.  She’s tried to call a few times, but you haven’t responded.

     You will now.

     The leaves and branches rustle.  Hold still, now.  Very still.  Angie walks along the cliff’s edge, holding herself tight. Head bowed. Shoulders quivering.  Moonlight makes her hair glow red.  As she paces along that sheer, rocky edge, you catch glimpses of her sobbing face. Sure, she’s upset.  But does she feel sorry for you?

     No.

     Selfish bitch.  She doesn’t care.  Not when her phone messages only beg you not to tell HIM.  Even after all this time.  She’s more afraid of losing HIM than you.

     Anger ripples through you.  Makes you brush the branches closest to you.  Its dry leaves rasp.  Angie looks up into the trees, eyes narrowed and glittering.

     “W-who’s there?  Matt?  Matt, is that you? I swear…if you’re spying on me, I’ll…”

     Still, now.

     Very still.

     Silence.

     Angie turns away.  She never sees you coming. Lucky for you, she’d been looking in the wrong spot, off to the left and too low.

     You fly straight towards her.  Bitter anger swells and clogs your throat, so there are no words. All you can do is screech.  You slash at her…

     She spins.  Screams, eyes wide.  Back-peddles, slips on gravel at the cliff’s edge.  For an instant her arms windmill…

     Then she’s gone.

     Without a sound.  Not even a yelp. Just a sibilant whoosh, then seconds later a distant thud.

     Just like that.

*

     It doesn’t take long to follow her down.  It’s not far, “near as the crow flies,” like Grandpa Riggins used to say.  You find her in a twisted heap.  Her neck’s wrenched at an odd angle.  Her mouth and nose and lips glimmer in the moonlight as red as her hair.

     She stares, eyes wide and glassy.

     Not how you wanted it, really.  She deserved worse.  Deserved her pretty little face slashed up and her eyeballs plucked out.  Doesn’t matter.  It’s done.  There’s one more. 

     HIM.  This is his fault.  Nothing would be like this if it weren’t for him.  Hopefully, the chance will come before dawn. 

     That’s all the time you have left.

     You turn and head home. 

*

     HE comes into your room hours later.  With his belt.  That’s how he likes it.  Wrapped around your neck.  Like a yoke. 

     It’s very early.  That’s also how He likes it.  Early, before everyone wakes up.  When it’s quiet.  When He can take time cleansing the Flesh and administering the Rod.

     No pun intended there.  In the other hand he carries the stripped oak branch he always uses.

     The Rod to the Flesh.

     Purging the spirit.

     Yoking desire.

     But this morning he stops.  Sees your open bedroom window, which you crept through hours ago.  The screen is gone.  A light breeze curls the curtains.  Next he sees the small altar in the corner.  Black candles almost burnt to nubs.  Between the candles, the remains of a slaughtered black bird.

     A crow.

     When he sees you sprawled before the candles in your chair, wrists slashed and crusted a brownish-red; he drops his belt and oak switch.  Good idea, facing the door when you did it, so it looked like you’re waiting for him. Your dull eyes and slack, rigor-mortis grin shocks him, badly.  Shocks him so badly he doesn’t see the old leathery book open in your lap.  Even if he did, he’d never understand.  The knowledge contained within its pages is Old. Ancient.  Beyond mud-bound things like him.  Beyond what you used to be.

     With a flutter you streak from your hiding place in the rafters.  You’ll ruin his face. Pluck out his eyes.  If you’re lucky and fast, plunge your beak through his eyes into his brain.

     He turns and shouts.

     You screech. 

     He doesn’t have a chance; because you’re not that far away at all, near as the…

 

 

Kevin Lucia is the Review Editor for Shroud Magazine. His short fiction has appeared in several anthologies. He’s currently finishing his Creative Writing Masters Degree at Binghamton University, he teaches high school English and lives in Castle Creek, New York with his wife and children. He is the author of Hiram Grange & The Chosen One, Book Four of The Hiram Grange Chronicles. Visit him on the web at www.kevinlucia.com.