listen to the crows

The blades of grass – now red. The cedar, fir, pine, spruce, alder trees – red. The sky resembles blood. The sun too. My hands – maroon and trembling. My Converse sneakers have gone from white to a canvas splattered, completely coated, in red like acrylic paint. It seems the world around me has gone red. Why? Why, why, why?

He came home late again, 3:00am. He tried his best to undress and turn on the shower quietly. I could hear him trip over himself as he stumbled out of his pants, his belt buckle clinking quietly. He tried to climb into bed softly without waking me. But I was awake. And he did not try hard enough to hide the smell of tequila on his breath or Black Orchid on his clothes.

Have you ever gone to the mall, and you choke on your own saliva as you pass through the perfume section? Every scent in existence trying desperately to cling to your nostrils in exchange for a pretty penny. Some are sweet and challenge the bills in your pocket to a losing battle, others are the worst smelling fragrances one could thing of conjuring. I was never one to involve myself in the selection of expensive scents; I found it trivial. You pay eighty dollars for perfume that barely stays on for fifteen minutes before you’re right back where you started. I only made that mistake once when I invested in Dior at the age of 20. After that, I found men’s cologne was more daring, and rested on my skin way past the polite hour of returning to my own home. Ironically, it is men’s Dior I prefer.

In the morning, he tried to be subtle and say work kept him late – that the projects wouldn’t finish themselves and he could not rest knowing they were incomplete. I giggled to myself wondering how focused he would be with a fifth of Jose Cuervo in one hand, and a mistress in the other. He thought me stupid, I suppose. Just like every other. It’s alright. I knew. No shower could wash away the scent of betrayal.

I stand in the middle of this forest, trying to collect my thoughts. Find something serene in the surrounding foliage that can provide me with a clear, meditative mind. Something to tell me that what I did was wrong. The world seems to subside from red as I seek some form of remorse, but only for a second until my thoughts become angry again. Red, red, red. Why would he do this to me? Why did he give me a reason? Men are so simple, so easy. So hopeful in achieving deception. He should have known me better than this. All women find out eventually. I told him that while he begged for my forgiveness earlier.

Maybe I’ll turn the tables – go to the club myself tonight and de-stress…I mean, work late. They will always buy me drinks, swarm me like white blood cells to an open wound. A drink – preferably red wine – for a hopeful invitation between spread legs. Why are men so simple, so easy? Perhaps, I will ask my husband, he’ll surely know! A laugh escapes my body. Oh, yes, he would know.

I’ve never been to France. I’ve read and listened to stories from friends of the beautiful scenery there, the glowing cities, and glorious food and drink. It was often hard not to be envious, as my lack of traveling experience rendered me unable to compare such glorious endeavors. Tom always talked of taking me there. How we would stroll through the boulevards in Paris, bathe in the sunshine of the French Riviera, renew our vows over a candlelit dinner in Lyon. A Chateau Lafite would be the toast of the evening; blend of Cabernet and Merlot and love would challenge the beautiful cosmopolitan city. Maybe I’ll finally take the leap and beginning planning a trip there…

Two crows sit on a telephone wire above me as I stand in the pile of dirt, resting on my shovel. I can hear them cawing back and forth, their beady eyes meeting mine as I gaze up at them.

“He did not deserve you.” One crow said.

“He did not deserve this.” The other countered.

“Well, I enjoyed the show.” The first crow fluttered.

“I cannot deny that.” The second crow agreed.

What supportive birds, keeping such dirty secrets.

Ah, what anger does to you. Takes over the whole brain, creates a different world, a different color palette for a while. Until it fades away so suddenly…

The blades of grass are violently green. The cedar, fir, pine, spruce, and alder have reverted back to their respective shades of early spring. The sky is blue again, the sun a bright yellow and white beam. But my hands…my hands are covered in chrysanthemum-like spectacles across the skin. My Converse still resemble a depiction of a horror movie – like Psycho or Scream.

How funny.

Horror shows have never scared me, maybe that should have been Tom’s first inclination. We would cuddle up with blankets and he would flinch at every on-coming threat while I sat stoic beside him. It seems quite humorous to think about looking in on that from the outside.

I plunge the shovel into the earth and throw another pile into the deepened cavity. I will have to find a new location soon…this clearing is filling up.

——————————————————————

Law enforcement arrives the day after. I had called the police department, weaving a heart-wrenching story into a shaking voice.

He said he was going to work late.

He did not come home last night and this evening.

I am so, so worried.

Where could he be?

He hasn’t responded to any texts or calls. I mean, there was never a more true statement – how could he when he was six feet underground, and his phone was seventy-two miles away, dropped, unfeeling, on the concrete of the Broken Bridge? It is an old entity two towns over, just strong enough to withstand time as it suspends itself a few hundred feet above a surging gorge. His phone was cast aside when he plummeted off, poor thing. Poor, poor, poor thing…

The doorbell rings a cheerful melody, like a dinner bell. A handsome man stands behind it, clad in all black. He shows me his badge bound in a small leather book. Special Agent James Wyatt. I invite him inside and offer tea which he obliges. I take note of the pistol holstered at his hip.

“The police department gave me a tip on your missing husband,” Agent Wyatt says, making himself comfortable on the couch. “I am only here because this has been the thirteenth missing man from this surrounding area in the last three years. I am trying to tie them together somehow…but there’s just never enough evidence.”

I stay silent as I offer him a cup, then sit in the loveseat across from him, focusing on a grieving and submissive posture. I draw in a practiced shaky breath, nodding my head.

“I am sorry, miss. I did not mean to make your husband’s disappearance sound so pawn-like. We’re doing everything we can to solve this.”

I stare at his hands as he clasps them together. The gold wedding band on his finger is slightly dull from its constant use. Tom forgot to wear his to work nearing the end of his disappearance…its evidence against his olive skin faded until there was no trace at all of committed love.

“It’s alright, I know you did not mean to do so.” I say, tilting my head to stare at the young man. “I think I am still trying to wrap my head around all of this.”

“And I completely understand. I only have a few questions to ask and then I will be on my way.”

I obliged in his simple questions and answered honestly. He was sincere in his sympathy and talked to me as if I was a young girl having lost her favorite toy. I was delicate with my answers – careful, slow. Playing the part of the grieving wife, unable to comprehend such madness. After a long while, our conversation ends, and he rises from the couch, pocketing his small notebook and pen. I take his empty teacup from him, walking the china back into the kitchen to wash.

“Do you have children, Agent Wyatt?” I turn to look at his tailored frame in the doorway as I rinse out the cup.

“I do. Two daughters,” he smiles, his eyes glazing over as if lost in thought, before snapping back to attention. “Why?”

“You were speaking to me in such a comforting way, I just had to ask.”

“Ah. It must be a habit, I suppose.” Officer Wyatt smiles, playing with his gold wedding band. He twists it, pulling it down the length of his finger and back into place again. There is no tan line underneath. My eyes narrow. I turn back to the sink and shut off the water.

I see you now.

The walk from the kitchen to the front door is silent. I slip a letter opener into my palm on the way to the door and open it wide enough to let Agent Wyatt out before me. The sound of flapping wings is familiar; five crows sit on a brick wall near his car parked parallel across from the house. I stare at them, and he follows my eyes, watching them lined up almost as if for a special ceremony, cawing inconsistently. We watch them silently and curiously for a few seconds.

“One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a wedding, four for birth, five for rich, six for poor, seven for a witch, I can tell you no more.” I broke away from the crows to stare at the agent while he recited the mythological poem. He turned to look back at me, smiling somewhat as I must have looked slightly caught off guard by such a man knowing such a work. “Guess I’m in for a bit of luck, eh?”

One single crow comes to join the five, but instead perches on the hood of Agent Wyatt’s car. Its head turns to use black, soulless eyes which stare right at us. It almost makes me giddy.

“Hm,” Agent Wyatt says. “I am mistaken then.”

Yes, mistaken indeed.

The crows are cawing louder now – and are more unison in their proclamations. They are in my thoughts, they are my thoughts: Traitor, Traitor, Traitor, Traitor.

What man betrays his woman? His children? His promise of love through sickness, health, bad times, and good? Only a cowardly man. One not strong enough to look his woman in the eyes and tell her he has had enough.

Well, I have had enough.

“Do you know what they call a group of crows, Mr. Wyatt?”

“No – what?”

“A murder.”