Fiction

A Murder of One

The Quiet is coming. My feet take their first step onto to the thick, grey grass. I shudder. The fear that spreads throughout my body leaves my mouth open and shaking and my hands grasp at the opposite arm. I drag my trembling legs forward and the hairs on my body stand stiff against the chill. I know, though, that it is not merely the cold to which my body is reacting. The lateness of the hour causes a stir in my stomach, of lurid exhilaration and pure fear that swirl into a mass of anxiety. The world before me slowly develops in the darkness and I notice the crooked pavement that I stepped away from is now the same weedy, dead grass. Though out of focus, I can make out a mass of concrete, derelict and looming; it is tainted by the same lifelessness that consumes me here in the Quiet. My mind is dazed and my eyes weak. I cannot control what is coming. The weeds are gasping, the leaves are scattered dust, and even the concrete's jagged windows are blunted. Everything is all at once innocuous and terrifying. The only way I can make sense of the unfolding landscape is to say it is that of a nightmare world; an ordinariness consumed by a vibrant decay. I take another cautious step into the blackness and an abrupt, whistling breeze whips my legs and wills me to look up to the heavens, up and up to the murky purple sky. This is how I know that I am in the Quiet, because the sky is tainted also. It is transformed into an otherness that possesses no constellations or spirit – it is the definitive sign. I stare upwards at the request of the wind. The nebulous eels are separating, swirling and pulling away until they dissipate; banished from the sky so only the bright eye can stare down upon me. I am found because the wind has betrayed me. My clearing is lit, a spotlight upon my weak and tired frame. The Quiet develops and a forest forms in the distance, tall and statuesque, the tops dark and compact. The chill in the air does nothing to deter the dizzying sweat that clings to my head and my chest, nor anything to my hair which is pasted to my face as if it sought refuge. I wish there was something at this moment that I could cling to. The next few steps reveal nothing until I falter at the sight of various dark apparatus. It is a park, a child's play area fused to the arid soil and dead grass. I approach the swinging gate in the same manner I approached the Quiet – slowly, shaking and reluctantly driven. I place my hand on the blue metal frame to stop its movement and a shiver reverberates through me, my knees clacking together in a ceaseless rhythm. The squeaking roundabout spins slowly, the swings lilt back and forth and the metal springing horses lurch forward and back again as if being ridden by the wind. It is only the climbing frame that holds a still contrast to the apparatus that surround it; it is solitary and waiting. I know that it is waiting, because I am waiting. Every fibre of this world is waiting to crumble – and it is close.
I am awoken from my daze by the caw. A slice through the silence that stills my shaking body completely; it is here. Again. The noise comes from above me. Again. Now behind. No - it is coming from all around me, one caw after another reverberates through my skull and my hands smack either side of my head, my fingers curling in my hair. My legs falter backwards from the gate and it is then that I see it – see them. My eyes focus upon the watchers of the trees, deep red speckles scattered and growing by the seconds as more beady eyes are opening and preying on me. Again. The caws in unison, a menacing, punishing rhythm forcing me to spin and acknowledge. My feet move quickly and unsteady in a small circle again and again, my hands against my head, my breathing harsh, and my eyes widen and widen until I fall to my knees in a thunk upon the solid soil. My sickened stomach weighs me down and I shoot my head upwards to the trees accepting that I am surrounded. It is ending, surely. It is then, against the murky sky, that the tree tops begin to shake – no, they begin to dissipate. The branches hold no leaves but wings that are blackened and dispersing away from the giant roots. The trees, I realise now, are utterly deadened and grey; monuments for Spring in the eternal Winter. The caws have now morphed into one large chorus as they have finally taken to the sky in a pantheon of flapping wings and curled claws. They are back. My nightmare stands firm. The murder of crows, the murders and murders of crows.
The jerking rhythm of my knees has returned, as has my uneven breathing; I seem only to be exhaling into the night air and my chest tightens in response. This is a bad one. There are so many staring mercilessly down upon me and I know that I have truly lost control. The wind is gone and not a single blade of grass moves. My body aches. My arms hang loosely at my sides and my legs stagger from one foot to the other in depletion, my eyes darting amongst the black swarm. The air around me is so consumed by their cries, yet I am sure I hear other sounds beyond the wings – no, it is my weak mind, my failing ears, and no doubt my fading hope. The aches continue to run through me and blur my vision, my focus becomes harder to maintain and any defences are utterly non-existent. I attempt to throw my arms up in front of me as a shield, but the force causes my legs to give way and I fumble harshly to the ground. There is silence, and then fury.
Like a bullet, the first crow comes hurtling toward me beak first and slices my left arm in a motion that does not hurt until I see the blood travel down to my wrist like a stream that separates through my fingers. The next one slices the right, followed by a stab to my foot - but which one I cannot tell because my entire body is wrapped in searing pain. I know I am screaming in short bursts but can barely hear myself as I roll from side to side in poor attempts to avoid it. The repetitive sharpness continues to puncture my back, I begin to crawl on all fours leaving blood stained grass behind me, the blood from my arms seconds later staining my legs. My jagged rhythm is interrupted by a firm grasp on my hair whipping my head backward, and then countless more times until I am on my feet and breaking into a limping run. It is when I take a fourth or fifth limp that my arms tighten and feel stretched, and once more I am brought to a breathless standstill. The cawing is echoing around me, but the murder has... disappeared. My eyes blur with tears when a shadowy force claims my arm again and I emit a beastly scream and lurch in the opposite direction, I pull, pull, pull and... blackness. It is as if a bullet has pierced my skull, not from the sharp pain but, rather, the swift nature in which my world is silenced and captured.

I hear the mechanical whirr before I open my eyes. The white fan on a table by the window, surrounded by the white walls, wooden floor and white sheeted bed. The bed is where I lie covered by a thin white sheet stopping at my chest, and with this recognition of place I give a deep and tired sigh. I feel the tight bandages around my limbs. I turn my head to the right and realise I am not alone as Marielle is sitting in the chair by the door, tapping her pen against her knee and smiling gently at me. How long has she been sitting there? Her smile couldn't be more condescending if she tried, but I like Marielle nonetheless – well, as much as one can like the woman who administers the medication and watches whilst you take a bath. She isn't very good at her job, and the evidence is lying in bed staring at her. She looks older, bathed in this light and wearing the same stained uniform as yesterday; last night must have been stressful for her. Her blonde plait is tattered and resting on her chest, every bit of make-up wiped clean, adding to her exhausted demeanour. How is it that with no make-up she looks older? My face is unflinching and I stare her down. Marielle is only a few years older than me, taller and toned, but I am more attractive – and me being here, helps her deal with that. She gives in.
'Feeling relaxed?' Her eyebrows arch, but expect no answer. 'I've administered only half a dose of your medication, with the commotion last night we're still trying to clean everything up and locate everyone.' She begins to stand, thus breaking eye contact for the first time. She feels responsible.
'It shouldn't be too difficult, you were the only one we found that had ran south, so...' She fiddles with her watch and then her bracelet before turning away to face the door.
'We sedated you before you could do anymore harm to yourself and we couldn't find your weapon but it was dark and you're back now.' She wants to leave quicker, but must feel like she has to purge. 'You were dangerously close to a school and we can't have that. We can't have the public knowing that any of you were that far away.' Her head turns to the side to face the wall the bed faces, still not looking at me but she is trying her best. 'You'll have to stay here until we can get you your full dose, it's getting dark so you should try to sleep. If you see anything, or feel on edge, then call for me – or anyone – and, and we'll help. But don't leave your room, no matter what...okay?'
She straightens her dress, turns the handle and leaves without turning back. The room darkens with the night.

I have not moved my head from the direction of the door since Marielle left. The room is coated in a deep darkness now. I close my eyes for a few seconds and open them to a murky, purplish enclosure that calls my attention to a moon-drenched spot at the window.
It is back. A murder of one.
The crow is perched calmly upon the windowsill, willing me to follow. Follow? Has the window always been open? Surely not. But it is open now, and I move my legs sideways off of the edge of the bed until they drop and find the hard floor. My body follows. I am mesmerised by the pit-black of the creatures eyes until it jumps, readies its wings to face the window, and flies through it, landing by a tree and refocusing its unflinching gaze upon me. I need no incentive. I clamber to follow and find myself running at pace behind the gliding creature, its wings not flapping once. I halt when my feet touch the familiar chill of the grey grass and walk through the weeds to where the creature sits perched upon the gate of the park, blending into the still of the quiet.
The apparatus does not move like before, and the trees around me are honest and deadened; it is the climbing frame, however, that looms unlike before – a dizzying, metal tower. I turn my head back to the gate and the creature gives a faint, but sure, nod. My hands clasp the first cold metal bar and a familiar determination washes over me. I climb up and up, further than what was visible from the ground, my lungs constricting and panting as I go up and up, until finally I crawl up and over the solid peak with my nails scraping me forward. I stand, my uneasiness fading, and a peacefulness spreads through my body; the landscape is black and calm and I breathe in the chill, letting the wind guide me to freedom, a faint caw echoing through the air.

Rachel McKinnie