Ritual

A ritual can be a man's best friend. It keeps him grounded, creating a familiarity with his body that leaves him ready to face the day every day. However, it can also leave him open to surprises that could throw off this well-maintained ritual, like the death of one's parents. No amount of preparation can prepare you to attend the funeral of your parents and the fallout that remains afterward. The eggshells everyone walks on around you at school, the whispers behind your back, it's all so tiring. 

Shutting off the shower I open the curtain getting blasted by the fierce coldness of my reality sending goosebumps across my flesh. I quickly wrap my body in a towel drying myself off and step out onto the cold bathroom tiles. The sensation grounds me, pulling me back from the mental fog that always threatens to creep in after moments of reflection. My reflection stares back at me from the fogged-up mirror. I swipe my hand across it, clearing a patch of steam to examine myself.

I look at my body—strong, lean muscles that have become more defined since those months in treatment. There wasn't much else to do there but work out, and my past in mixed martial arts made that easier. That routine became my anchor. A ritual. In a place where the world was stripped of meaning, structure was everything. It kept me grounded. I would wake up, work out, eat, get shocked, take my meds, talk to my therapist, repeat.

I trace a scar along my ribcage, a reminder of past fights, both in and out of the ring. There's a familiarity in my muscles, the control I have over them, the power they give me. It's reassuring. But as grounded as I feel in my body, I know it doesn't matter when life decides to pull the rug out from under you. Nothing prepares you for moments that rip through your carefully maintained rituals—moments like the death of your parents.

I hated attending their funeral, that's when the symptoms raged to an inferno and they only grew worse in the days that followed. The sympathetic looks. The awkward pauses in conversations. The whispers behind your back at school, from people who think you can't hear them. As if one wrong word will send you spiraling. As if I wasn't already there.

I loved them. I loved them more than anyone could ever understand. But I also hate them for dying. I hate that they left me behind. I hate that they left us behind. And Elena—if she hadn't gone out that night, if they hadn't gone to pick her up, maybe they'd still be alive. Maybe I wouldn't have had to spend months in therapy, trying to fix something that was broken beyond repair. 

And sometimes, I wish I just stayed numb. Caring is exhausting. Feelings—they complicate things. My therapist says that feelings are what make us human. But sometimes, I wonder—wouldn't it be easier if I wasn't human?

The cold bites into my skin again as I wrap the towel around my waist. The goosebumps rise, a sharp contrast to the heat of the shower that's already dissipating. I glance back at my reflection one more time, as if checking to see if I'm still the same person I was before all this. But I'm not. And I never will be again.

I leave the bathroom and move toward my dresser, knowing that today is just another day of pretending—pretending that I'm better, that I've healed, that I've moved on. But the truth is, the routine is the only thing that keeps me from falling apart completely. Each motion, each step, keeps the chaos at bay for a little while longer.

As I reach for my clothes, I pause. There's a weight in my chest, that familiar heaviness. I take a deep breath, pulling on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, letting the mundane actions pull me away from the thoughts swirling in my head. There's no room for that now. Just another day to get through. One step at a time.

Checking my watch I wipe the droplets of water still clinging to it, 06:57 A.M. Three minutes, three minutes of sickening silence, walking to my desk with two black ballpoint pens and two #2 pencils positioned neatly in the right corner and a lamp in the left corner. I slide back the chair and sit raising my hand absentmindedly biting off a string of my flesh between my cuticle peeling it back before grinding my teeth, eating it. I go from finger to finger peeling off my flesh then to the callouses beneath my ring and middle finger eating the peeling skin. Checking my watch it reads 07:00 A.M. perfect. 

Standing to my feet I push the chair and walk to the door grabbing my backpack which I packed the night before and walk downstairs. The familiar creak of the stairs echoes as I make my way down, each step measured, precise. The house is still. It's always this quiet in the mornings, a silence so heavy it clings to everything like a damp fog. I glance over to the side table near the entrance where a framed picture of my parents sits, their smiling faces frozen in time. I quickly look away, focusing on the task at hand. Breakfast. A ritual that, like everything else, is perfectly timed and executed.

In the kitchen, the faint hum of the refrigerator fills the void as I set my backpack down next to the counter. I roll my shoulders, pushing the tension out, and move to the fridge. Eggs. Milk. Butter. Bacon. Everything is laid out on the counter in a familiar order. There's something reassuring about it, the simplicity of preparation. No chaos. No uncertainty. Just a task to be completed.

I crack the eggs one by one into a bowl, whisking them with a practiced hand. The motions feel automatic, my mind already wandering elsewhere. I wonder if today will be like every other day—whispers in the hallway at school, those fleeting glances that are too quick to catch but heavy with meaning. It's like they think I don't notice, but I do. I notice everything. The eggs hiss as they hit the pan, the smell of butter and bacon filling the air as I lay the strips beside them. 

The ticking of the wall clock is almost deafening in the quiet of the kitchen, each second dragging me closer to the inevitable grind of the day. Breakfast is something I can control. Outside of these walls? Not so much.

I hear a creak from upstairs—probably Jeremy stirring—and I automatically check my watch again. 07:10 A.M. Perfect timing. My eyes drift to the knife block on the counter, fingers twitching slightly as I think about the smooth, rhythmic slicing of a knife through food. The sensation of control. But I push the thought aside, flipping the bacon instead. I focus on the smell, the sound, the tangible reality of it. The one part of the day that hasn't betrayed me yet.

As I move between the stove and the countertop, setting out plates, I catch my reflection in the kitchen window. My hair is still damp, slightly messy, but otherwise, I look…normal. Calm. Just another high school junior making breakfast before school. But then my eyes narrow, and for a second, I could swear I see something in the reflection behind me—a dark figure, maybe, or a shadow that doesn't quite belong. 

I spin around, heart racing for a split second before I realize…nothing's there. Just the empty hallway leading to the living room. 

Deep breath.

I brush it off, telling myself it's nothing. My fingers move to the edges of the countertop, gripping it a little too tightly. It's just the same old paranoia. The therapist warned me about this—residual hallucinations, they called it. Symptoms fading, but never quite gone. 

I turn back to the stove, shaking my head and muttering under my breath, "Get a grip."

I finish cooking, sliding the eggs and bacon onto plates. Everything in its place. I check my watch again—07:13 A.M.—and the tension eases from my chest. Breakfast is done. On time. In control. Setting the dining room table I bring over the plates one by one, Jenna, Elena, Jeremy, then me. Lastly I grab my medicine container marked with a letter for each day of the week. I pause for a moment, staring at the small container in my hand. Each compartment neatly labeled, each day accounted for. It's a ritual, just like everything else. Routine is the only thing I can control. Everything else—life, death, the whispers, the looks at school—it's all chaos. But this? This I control. Breakfast is made and ready at the same time every day, not a minute earlier or later. It's one of the few things that keep me grounded. If you start trying to control other people, start hounding them, you'll drive yourself mad.

I smirk at the thought. Crazy. Funny, right? The irony isn't lost on me. I shake my head as I pop open the Monday tab and down my pills with a glass of water. Maybe if I hadn't gone crazy already, I wouldn't be laughing.

I take my seat at the table and glance at my watch—07:15 A.M.—perfect. I breathe out slowly, letting the calm wash over me. Everything is exactly as it should be. I cut into the eggs, watching the yolk run just a little, the golden liquid pooling around the bacon. The routine is simple, precise. No surprises.

But then, as if the universe has a sick sense of humor, I hear a sharp tap against the glass window. I look up, eyes narrowing as the sound repeats. Tap. Tap. Tap.

A crow. Its beak striking against the glass in rhythmic pecks. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I freeze for a moment, fork suspended mid-air. The crow's dark eyes meet mine through the window, its head tilting unnaturally, almost as if it knows something I don't. Tap. Tap. Tap. It won't stop. My stomach twists, but I shove the feeling down, reminding myself that this is just a bird. Just a bird tapping on the glass.

But it doesn't feel that simple. The crow's eyes seem too sharp, too focused. The tapping too precise. I clench my jaw and take a slow bite of eggs, chewing deliberately, trying to drown out the sound. You're fine, I tell myself. You're in control. You're not crazy.

But the tapping continues, relentless, cutting through the quiet rhythm of my morning. Tap. Tap. Tap. My eyes flicker to the window again, irritation bubbling beneath my skin. Why now? Why today? Everything else was going so perfectly. 

"Shut up," I mutter under my breath, as if the bird can hear me. I take another bite, forcing myself to focus on the food in front of me, but the crow's presence gnaws at the edges of my calm. 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The noise won't stop. And for a split second, the house doesn't feel so safe. It doesn't feel like my place of control. The crow keeps pecking, its black wings rustling as it moves closer to the glass, almost like it wants to come inside.

I grip the fork tighter, my knuckles turning white as the tapping burrows into my head. Tap. Tap. Tap. It's just a bird. Just a bird, I repeat to myself, trying to hold onto that small sliver of reason. But the sound feels louder than it should be. Too sharp. Too focused.

I glance at the clock—07:17 A.M. The seconds tick away, but the crow's pecking doesn't falter. 

"Stupid bird," I mutter, dropping my fork onto the plate with a clatter. I can feel my heart rate rising, frustration bubbling up inside me. I've got to stay calm. You control this. I take a deep breath, pushing myself up from the table, and walk to the window, each step deliberate, trying to maintain the careful control of my morning. The cool tiles under my feet ground me, but as I approach the window, that sense of unease tightens in my chest.

The crow's dark eyes follow me. It's waiting. The moment I reach the glass, it stops pecking, its head cocking to the side in a way that makes my skin crawl. The silence that follows is somehow worse than the tapping.

I lean in closer, my breath fogging the glass, and the crow inches forward, its beady black eyes locking onto mine. It feels…wrong. Like it knows me. Like it's here for a reason. My pulse quickens, a shiver running down my spine despite the heat of the morning sun streaming in.

I blink, and for a second—just a second—its eyes seem to shift, dark shadows swirling within them, like a void threatening to pull me in. I pull back sharply, my hand instinctively going to my chest as I breathe out shakily.

"Get out of here," I hiss, tapping the glass myself, hoping to scare it off. But the crow doesn't move. It doesn't even flinch. It just keeps watching me, silent now, but more unsettling than ever.

My eyes drift toward the kitchen door, wondering if anyone else is awake. Jenna? Jeremy? Elena? No. They'd think I'm overreacting. Maybe I am. But something about this bird is different. Wrong.

I shake my head, stepping back from the window, and the crow flutters its wings lightly, like it's considering moving. But it stays, its presence now looming even though it's small, a weight pressing down on the otherwise empty kitchen.

I return to the table, but I can't focus on breakfast anymore. The calm I had built, the perfect routine I depend on, is shattered by that stupid bird. I try to ignore it, but I can still feel its gaze on me, watching from the window. Like it's waiting for something. 

I pick up my fork again, but the food now tastes like ash in my mouth. The crow remains silent, but the tension lingers, pressing against my skin like a cold, invisible hand.

And then, from somewhere deep in my mind, a faint whisper, like it's riding the edge of the wind. You can't control everything. 

I freeze, my grip tightening on the fork as I stare down at my plate. The voice isn't real. It can't be. I'm on my medication. I'm fine. 

I glance up at the window again, my heart pounding now. The crow is still there, perched and waiting. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. It begins again, louder this time, like it's trying to crack through more than just the glass.

I sit there, staring at the crow, its beak tapping against the glass in that same maddening rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. The voice in my head, the whisper about control, lingers like a dark cloud over my thoughts, creeping in no matter how hard I try to shove it away.

Just as I'm about to stand and do something—anything—to get rid of the crow, I hear footsteps descending the stairs. Jenna. Her voice calls out, breaking the tension in the room.

"Blake, can you give me a quick opinion on something?" she asks, a note of excitement in her tone. "It's Jeremy's parent-teacher conference, and I'm already a wreck trying to decide if this looks professional enough."

I turn in my chair, the crow momentarily forgotten. Jenna stands at the bottom of the stairs, smoothing down her skirt nervously. She's wearing a fitted purple blouse and a black pencil skirt—something professional, but there's a lightness in her hazel eyes that tells me she's also hopeful. It's a big day for her, the first parent-teacher conference since becoming our guardian, thankfully she's getting the least academically inclined sibling first.

I force a smile, trying to shake off the unease. "You look good, Jenna. Professional. It suits you," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

She smiles at that, looking relieved, but there's still a slight tension in her shoulders as she brushes her hands over the fabric again. "Thanks, I was worried I might be overdoing it. You know how it is—first impressions and all. Did you take your medicine?"

I nod, trying to seem engaged, but my eyes flicker back to the window. The tapping. The crow. It's still—

Wait.

I blink.

The crow is gone. The window is empty, as if it was never there at all.

"Blake?"

Jenna's voice pulls me back, and I realize I've been staring at the empty window for a beat too long. I shake my head, forcing a small laugh. "Yeah, I took them, you look great. Perfect for the job."

But as Jenna turns away, satisfied with my answer, a chill crawls down my spine. I can't shake the feeling that the crow was more than just a bird. That it wasn't a hallucination, or a trick of the light. It was there. I know it was.

Jenna's voice breaks through again. "You okay? You seem a little distracted this morning."

I blink, turning my focus back to her. "Yeah, I'm good. Just… tired, I guess." It's a lie, but it's easier than explaining the thoughts swirling in my head.

She gives me a small nod, still looking concerned, but she doesn't push further. "Alright. Keep updating your journal on how the medicine makes you feel for Doctor Alex. Wish me luck," she says with a nervous laugh, picking up her bag. "I'll need it."

"Good luck, Jenna," I reply, my voice quieter now, my eyes drifting back to the window one more time. It's gone, and yet, I can't shake the feeling that something is still there—something unseen, lurking just beyond the glass. I stand up, pushing the chair back, but my mind is far from breakfast now. The routine feels broken, like a puzzle missing a piece I can't quite find.

07:21 A.M. Time to go.

Author's Note: This will be a fan fiction with darker themes so please don't read if you are sensitive.