The Ravens Behold (One-Shot)

1983.7.24

It is a particularly warm morning when the sun has risen, and sunlight travels across the empty void, reaching the planet and illuminating the beginning of a new day when the usual murder of ravens gather down the slope of a nameless mountain, perched upon the trees, eyes fixed upon the door they know would open.

Smart they were, the little birds. Their beady, black eyes hold an uncanny intelligence, one that would give a feeling of unease, should you stare more than necessary.

As the murder stills upon the branches of the trees, one could almost confuse them with the shades they so seem to naturally blend in with.

The serene atmosphere of the forest is suddenly interrupted by the creaking of wood—the wooden door is finally opened, and a man in his late fifties steps out, a small, plastic bag held in one hand while the other holds a mug of caffeinated beverage.

Black, but greying hair. Slouched posture, unnaturally long nose and small eyes. Totally average and unworthy of a second glance.

The flock of ravens still in place, the caws cease and an eery silence that could be almost physically felt is replaced instead, and dark, darker than black eyes fixate on the old man—almost maniacally, definitely intelligently.

Paul traverses the stairs to the ground, barefoot. The coffee mug is placed on the fence beside his rocking chair, getting colder, though Paul pays no heed, as his attention is stolen by the swift and soundless flight of one single raven with a whitened tail.

The others do not move.

The raven stands across Paul, and it beckons with a single, sickening caw that is echoed by all the other ravens—almost as if inclining him, though as to what is lost on the narrator.

Paul, again, pays no reaction besides a slight flinch, and he empties the contents of the plastic bag to the ground and takes two steps back.

The leader of the flock—the one with a white tail—hops over to the seeds and pokes and then with a deafening caw the rest of the ravens flock like how a sounder do to breadcrumbs.

Paul stares, indifferent.

The ravens, each, take only one seed, but they do not eat it nor throw it away, instead they merely carry it away to some place Paul probably will never know.

Soon enough, the murder of ravens are gone. The forest is back to normal, the birds are chirping, the air is lovely, and Paul is tempted and seduced by the smell of his cold coffee mug and the phantom feel of his old and rocking chair of the splintered hairs of wood that dig into his back but—

Koksel—the leader of the ravens—is still there, head tilted curiously, perched exactly where they were and exactly where they definitely should not be.

Paul's heart skips a beat, and he breaks into a sweat. He doesn't dare move, doesn't think he could even if he wanted to. The world suddenly feels so small and the stare of the raven is soul constricting.

Koksel does not move, but they whisper in spite of the fact that they were not biologically wired to do so: "Sinner."

The raven's voice holds no emotion.

A small spark of anger ignites within Paul, but it is kept as such as a result of fear: "I am not!"

Koksel beckons with their beak, almost mockingly: "Murderer."

The small spark of anger dies down, and with it, the smoke of sorrow and the ashes of regret come along, tainting Paul's soul: "That, I maybe am."

Paul relaxes his hands, of which he unconsciously tensed in his brief moment of anger and fear. The linings of deep regret and sorrow are evident in his face, and the trudge to his cottage is expressionlessly observed by Koksel, who's perched atop the branch of a tree.

The raven ruffles his feathers, and gazes at the human below: "What a pitiful existence," they whisper to themselves.

Paul opens the door, and enters the cottage despondent.

The mug of coffee is forgotten, and Paul decides sleep is much needed.

On his bed, he sits. He caresses an old picture. It contains him and his wife, both in their wedding dresses.

His dead wife, to be specific.

By now, Paul knows to hold the picture slightly away from his face by routine, lest it get ruined by his tears.

He puts the photo back in his breast pocket as he attempts to wipe away at his tears as if to deny his, and puts down his head.

People with depression often described it as a black hole forming within you. Each and every day, it consumes a small part of you until all that is left is a hollow husk that does not feel nor breath, but one that merely hangs by a rope tied to one's neck.

...Paul does not wake up the following morning, nor the one after that or the one after it too.

He passes away in his sleep, and his corpse is devoured by a flock of ravens in his own house.

A black raven with a white tail beckons with their beak to the corpse and their eyes gaze with uncanny intelligence.

They whisper, mockingly, "From mud thy were made and to ash thee shall return."

——

POLICE AUTOPSY REPORT.

2004.7.25

CASE-917XZ

SECURITY CLEARANCE NEEDED: 3

CODE-729

Male. Fifty two years old. Corpse suspected to be Paul Richardson. Diagnosed with schizophrenia and depression in 1980, Hospital of Greenville. Married to Jennifer Peterson, no known offsprings. Suspected murderer of his own wife. Case closed & dropped due to lack of evidence. Migrated to Texas a year following his wife's death. Unexplained sudden gain of wealth. Lived alone in a purchased cottage in a forest.

Reports of known therapist Michael Jackson, testified that Paul often rambled about a talking raven with a white tail after his wife's death that came to him in sleep and talked to him.

His therapist furthermore elaborated that Paul's hysterical episodes sounded like the common symptoms of schizophrenia and that the ravens were probably hallucinations that Paul manifested as guilt following the death of his spouse. Suspected cause of death is suicide by overdosing on antidepressants. Paul's spouse, Jennifer Peterson, was a bird expert who often volunteered in wildlife rehabilitation centres as a consultant, which could also explain why Paul's manifestation of his guilt following the death of his wife was in the form of a black raven with a white tail.

Interestingly enough, there were no sightings or studies of research about a raven specie that had the characteristics that of a white tail.

CASE COLD.

POLICE AUTOPSY END.