The Girl And The Crow Short Story
The Girl and the Crow
“Why so sad?” A voice rang from the solitude of the pitch black room startling her. A shocked gasp escaped her mouth but nothing more. It was a voice, a man’s voice, and men were something to be afraid of. Anything unfamiliar was something to be afraid of, for the unknown could only possibly be there to harm her in unspeakable ways
.
“Child, why so sad?” The voice called out again, and it seemed to have no point of origin. It spoke loudly, but with a soft tone, it didn’t cause her concern this time, instead her curiosity peeked. Who could this stranger be, how could they possibly know how she was feeling in the darkness of her room? Was she weeping? Must have been, had to of been, how else would he know?
She didn’t want to answer, her fathers voice rang in her ears every time she thought about answering this new voice. Her father, whose voice boomed so loudly she thought it might be the voice of god at times. A chill ran up spine and she let out a whimper and clenched her legs close to her chest. She could feel the cold cement floor on her feet, the cold air of the room tickling her skin. She could feel the tattered cotton dress on her bare skin, and remembered a day when the dress used to be her favorite.
There was a rustling sound from her right; she didn’t dare turn to look. Uncertainty flew across her like a calm breeze. Was she losing her mind? Is this what insanity was? When you hear voices in the dark, and your own memories make your skin crawl, is that insanity? Yes, she believed it was, and she only wondered what took it this long to find her.
“Why so sad… or should I just merely guess?” The voice called out again, but this time she could tell the direction. It was the same place she heard the rustling sound, but she was no longer afraid. This was her insanity, her new home, and she wanted to welcome it, even if it meant she had to simply entertain the new voices inside her head.
“Who say’s I am sad?” Her voice comes out weak, feeble, she despises it immediately. Never show your fear, it shows vulnerability and boys take advantage of vulnerability. That’s what her dad say’s and so it must be true, as good of a word as if written on a piece of parchment paper declaring it an eternal law. Etch it into a stone to preserve it through the ages, so many men and women can read the great word that is her father’s word.
“Oh, a little birdie told me.” The voice came out coy, exact, and she could almost feel the smile that was surely on its face. If it had a face, could a voice inside your head have a face? She assumed it could, if you could have an imaginary friend then surely your voices inside your head could have a face.
“Then get the bird to tell you why.” The words came out cold, callous; she almost didn’t recognize her own voice. A cawing of laughter followed, inhuman, and unfiltered. It made her dig her face into her knees and raise her hands over her ears. Surprisingly, she did a fair job of drowning out the laughter that only existed inside her head.
There was a distant sound, suddenly; she could barely hear it through her muffled ears. She slowly removed her hands from her ears, and listened to the tapping. There was something, or someone tapping on glass near her. There was glass in this room though her father never allowed her any food or drink when she was here, no, none at all.
She followed the sound carefully with her eyes, and stopped awestruck when she saw the cause of it. There silhouetted by the moonlight was a crow tapping upon her window. The crow seemed to notice it had her attention and stopped tapping amongst the window. Now it only stood there and cocked its head to the side as if perplexed by her movement.
She felt an odd idea come to her then, if she opened the window, would the crow come in the room? Would he sit in the darkness with her, or would he be so startled by her action that he would just simply fly away? She knew there was only one true way to test this but she didn’t want to walk, she didn’t want to move. Moving hurt her, and her legs were sore. Instead she just admired the bird from her view in the corner, and in return he admired her from his world outside of the room.
“And what is your name, if I may ask?” Her voice was now calm, tranquil as if the crow had put her spirit at ease some how. Of course why shouldn’t she be at ease? Nothing but just the crazy bird’s right. The crow shrugged its right wing as if to say “Hell if I know crazy lady” and she felt a smile creep across her face. When was the last time she smiled? She couldn’t remember, and then it was her turn to shrug. The crow cocked its head in the other direction as if in amusement of her mimicking action.
“What’s in a name? You answer my question, I answer yours.” The crow spoke with its usual soft tone. She even saw its beak move as it did, and now certainty grew over her, this is what insanity is. The crow lifts one leg momentarily and then places it back down as if getting restless. Could birds get restless? She assumed they could, how long has she ever seen a bird sit still? She doesn’t think she has ever seen a bird not move in some shape or form for any longer then ten seconds.
“It’s my father, I guess.” She says in a more somber tone. The mentioning of her father brings back his booming, always demanding tone of voice. The smell of cigar smoke clogs her nostrils until she’s almost positive she can taste it. She can hear his footsteps coming down the hall, coming to retrieve her from her room of solitude. Those heartbreaking thuds only his work boots could make on the wooden floor.
Suddenly her false sense of courage crumbles, and seems to lie in shambles all around her. It was him alright; he was coming back for her. Nonsense, ludicrous idea, he was asleep, surely he must be. Then she heard lock rattle, the chain clinking as it smacked against the wooden trim. Her grip on her legs grew tighter, almost painfully so.
She waited for her father to come in, each second emphasized by the sound of her heart beating loudly in her chest. Her breath became harder to catch, shallow and rapid. She never heard the squeaking of the door opening, or the odd scratching sound it made as it rubbed against the cement floor. Her father never came in, but she never heard his retreat either. Nor did she hear the lock slide back in place.
Time seemed to go by slowly, but minutes had passed before her heart rate slowed down, her breathing returned to its normal pace and quality. She turned to look at the window and saw the crow was gone; it had apparently lost interest in the terrified thing that sat in the corner and trembled. Then she saw movement and looked in its direction, and could just make out the outline of the crow as it trotted across the cement floor, silently.
“How did you get in here?” Her voice still shaky, unnerved, she cleared her throat in hopes she could make it sound stronger. Although why should she try to sound strong for a figment of her imagination? No matter how convincing it is, it simply cannot be… and yet it was. The bird trotted toward her, nonchalantly. It stopped just a couple feet away from her and then perked its head up and gazed its black eyes upon her.
“How did you get in here?” It responded, the accusation just a hint in its voice. She wanted to respond, but wasn’t sure if she knew how. The words were present but unable to escape her lips. She had gone so long without ever explaining she wasn’t sure if she could do it now, not even to herself. How could you explain this exactly? Is there a way? She didn’t think so.
“It’s complicated.” She replied simply as if that explained everything, and the cawing laughter escaped the birds’ beak again. It flapped its wings gracefully and rose in the air. It skittered close to her face and then flew off, landing on the edge of the window sill. It looked back at her and cocked its head to the side one more time.
“Mind your eyes child, for they are your way to heaven.” Then he flew off, as quiet as he had come. She wondered what the bird might have meant by its departing words, but nothing came to mind. Her imagination withered as fast as it had bloomed, and now she was alone once again, in the dark corner of the forgotten room. She felt like crying, she felt like screaming, but she knew neither one would do her any good.
A faint sound came to her; it wasn’t any true sound she was hearing, but a sound from memory. It was the clinking of the chain. She stood slowly, unsteadily, painfully to her feet. The pain throbbed in her bruised legs as she made her way to the door, using the wall for balance. She felt the cold door handle on her palm, and gasped with surprise as it twisted and the door creaked open.
Cautiously she leaned her head outside of the door. Nothing was there, just the hardwood flooring, the cheap and decaying wallpaper that was hanging down in strips revealing the yellowing plaster it once covered. She stepped out into the hall and could see her father’s door was open. Each step seemed to get heavier, as if the earth disapproved of her very actions and the gravity doubled to stop her.
She reached her fathers room out of breath, only allowing herself very shallow breaths at a time. She peeked her head into the room, and saw her fathers’ eyes on the floor looking back at her. His face covered with scratches and what looked like pecks from a beak. The empty holes where his eyes had once been, now filled with gore and blood, only appeared to be looking at her, but his eyes, they seemed to look accusingly at her. As if even in death, he still blamed her for everything.
She felt a chuckle rise up in her throat, and she fought to suppress it but failed. She walked into the room and sat down in front of the eyes. She picked one up and it held it close to her face, and perhaps she would of grimaced at the slimy texture, or the blood that dripped off onto her fingers, but she didn’t… she didn’t seem to care. She had a message to deliver, one for her father, and she was going to deliver it, because that’s what good girls do.
“Mind your eyes child, for they are your way to heaven”
