The Murder

He was half asleep and contemplating whether or not to get up when the door mysteriously swung open.

"Oh, hey girl," he said. "How ya doin'?"

The dog walked into the room.

"Time to get up," the dog's hot breath seemed to be saying.

"Coffee, first..." he thought as he groggily got out of bed, the dog already out of the room and looking back with excitement.

"Calm down, we'll go in a bit," he said. "If you'd learn to make coffee we could go a lot sooner."

He walked out of the room and followed the dog down the stairs, then headed straight to the kitchen.

As the coffee brewed, he sat in the living room and watched television. Apparently, some celebrity had done something and it was supposedly interesting. The people on TV seemed to be excited about it, anyway.

The dog was now staring at him and panting. The coffee was ready.

He drank his coffee and continued watching television. The dog continued begging with her eyes.

He set the almost empty cup on the end table and went to get his shoes. The dog could barely contain herself.

The sound of the drawer opening sent her into a frenzy. Like a bucking bronco she ran through the dog door, did a lap around the backyard and then returned and waited to be leashed, her wagging tail causing her entire body to move.

He put the leash on and opened the gate. They headed toward the neighborhood park.

As they walked, dogs barked from behind their fences while she sniffed every tree, pole, and possibly interesting thing on the ground.

Every now and then, she'd find a spot worthy of being marked. He was never sure about this decision process, but the dog seemed to put a lot of thought into it. After several stops and futile attempts to chase squirrels, they eventually made it to the park.

As the dog sniffed a telephone pole, he looked up and saw a large crow sitting on the wire. He realized it was the first bird he had seen the whole walk.

He dismissed the thought as inconsequential and took the dog off the leash. She ran off while he headed toward a bench. As he was walking, he heard a caw. Then another. And another.

The sound of the caws got louder and louder as he approached the bench. Suddenly, a black blur flew by his head. He turned to look where it came from and was struck by an odd site:

A large line of crows had formed about ten feet from him. A couple flew low to ground and landed behind. The others stayed in front.

Suddenly, one flew right at him. Instinctively, he swiped at it as hard as he could. With a whimper, it fell and laid motionless. He looked down at it and kicked it around a little. It didn't move.

Save for a few insects, he had never killed anything in his life. Guilt and remorse ran through his body.

As he was trying to figure out what was happening, two more came right at him. He covered his face and tried to run, but was met by the ones that had flown behind him. They began to wildly peck at his arms. He could feel their beaks breaking his skin and blood began to flow down his forearms and clump in his hair. The others caught up. Their beaks plunged into his skin and warm blood ran down his neck.

With no other choice, he began to thrash around. They were relentless. He caught one with a swift hit and it fell to the ground. Then another. And another. More flew at him and he swung wildly, reluctantly killing them.

Suddenly pain rushed through his hand...

With a squirt of blood, he grabbed the crow and pulled its beak from his hand just as more were flying at him. With warm liquid flowing down his right hand and dripping off his fingers, he used the bird in his left to swing at the others that flew at him. One, two, three quick stabs...

As the dead began to pile at his feet, his mind had gone blank.

Blood and feathers flew. Each attack ended with another crow having the life leave its body.

The fury died down. He was surrounded by a slew of corpses.

He looked at the now red crow in his hand struggling to break free. He let it go. The crow half-flew off before falling to the ground, the blood weighing it down. It was a bit dazed and bewildered. It stood motionless. The dog ran at it and it tried to fly off again. It eventually made it over the fence.

He then looked down at his right hand and remembered the wound. It had gone numb, as he had, and had become black from dried and coagulated blood.

He felt the wounds on the back of his neck and poked around them with his finger. The blood that flowed from them had collected at the collar of his shirt.

He stood there, head down and shoulders slumped, unmoving and looking at the carnage around him.

The dog came over and began to lick his hand.

"Stop that," he said sternly.

The dog looked up apologetically.

"Sorry, girl."

He examined his hand again.

"Let's go."

He and the dog left the park. It was littered with black lumps. The back of his shirt was wet and heavy with blood. His hand was now throbbing from pain.

As they continued to the house, he noticed he was being followed. As he walked, the dull brown limbs of the trees gave way to a scorched black. They followed him, perched and staring like an inescapable thought.

Head down, he continued walking. They left him alone. He made it back to house.

He went into the kitchen and began to run water over his hand. The water stung as it hit the open wound. He stood there gazing out the window. The black trees were staring at him.

A sharp sting ran through his hand. He looked down. He looked back up. The birds were gone...

After the encounter, he was never the same. The scenario replayed in his mind over and over again. He was often disconnected and distant. He longed to make sense of it.

But, he never could.

When the memory and feelings took over, all would become trees and the crows would once again fill the branches, their yellow eyes peering from the blackness.

Though their visits became less frequent, the murder never left him.