Volans

One

He sat there, staring into a mirror, and breathing in every ounce of life his narrow mind could take in. Each breath drew back the corners and widened his gaze. It was slipping, spilling over the edges and crashing to the floor. The fluidity of it all left him uneasy, and unsure of how to react. Each attempt put forth to gather what he lost was an effort in futility.

The mirror splintered. A small crack grew to the size of a web, and etched its way across the entire surface of the mirror. He stared at it, unable to move from his seat. Glass fell and clattered against the floor. As the last bit of glass shattered, the linoleum in the poorly kept kitchen began to spring to life beneath his feet. 

The dirt and grime that covered his floor grew faces and arms that bellowed and wretched forth, reaching into space hoping to grasp whatever they could get their hands on. Shards of glass made their way into the hands of the menacing creatures, and they began to stab and slice at the floor that imprisoned them. Jabbing downward, they scratched and tore through the linoleum, and scraps began to flake off and fall away.

From within the cracks and gaps in the linoleum, dark hands reached out through blackness. Nails scratched frantically at the ground, searching for more to grasp and cling on to. Still, this man sat in his chair, staring in awe at the chaos that has breached his small home. Gaps grew, and large crevices emerged and sunk into his floor. Loud shrieks and moans spewed out and filled the home, crashing against his ears. Dozens of black creatures crawled up from beneath the ground in his kitchen, dragging their engorged bellies and swollen arms across the decrepit and decaying remains of the linoleum.

Clawed and fanged creatures clumsily climbed their way up his chair, gnashing their teeth and squealing from hunger. Frozen, he could feel their razor sharp claws dig into his flesh as they pulled themselves up from the black hell they emerged from. Dozens of small, bloated and slimy creatures clung to him, and he began to feel the weight of their bodies grow and surround him. More found their way up the backside of the chair, and tugged at his jacket and hair. As more crawled up, the chair lost its balance, and began to topple backwards.

He fell backwards, unable to speak or move, merely gaping open his mouth wishing for something to come out. Paralyzed, he descended into the darkness. A man, a chair, and the plague of creatures that gnawed and tore at the flesh that was quickly becoming cloaked in the darkness that birthed them. Engulfed in darkness, the home he sat so peacefully in was inching closer into oblivion, the light from his ceiling withdrawing and closing up as he fell deeper into the cold and desolate darkness.

As he plummeted, the warmth of freshly drawn blood spiked and rushed throughout his entire body. Tiny claws and fangs started to lose their grip and disappear as he dropped faster. Time melted away and lost all meaning as the last glimmer of light from the low watt bulb on the ceiling of his disheveled home grew out of sight. What seemed like hours had passed by, and his heart grew weak and tired. What once held meaning for this man seemed to be absent from the darkness, leaving him feeling empty and lost. The faces of his loved ones faded, and were replaced by nothingness. 

His eyes grew heavy, and the sight of darkness became blinding. Slipping into the deepest sleep he had ever felt, this man fell deeper into the void, slumbering as if he were nestled in his bed back home.

“I can't tell what you want,” she says, “you're a ghost. Why am I here?”

He shrugs. No response that enters his mind seems fitting, or at the very least preventable of a backlash of harsh words and a volley of various objects.

“You're pathetic. I can see why they all left you.”

Heroism seems pathetic. Masochists, rapists, thieves, liars: these are what's really pathetic, he thought to himself. This is why he's a ghost, because he can't feel any sort of attachment towards such a weak mind. She mistakes his complacency for malcontent or even depression. He simply exists in a frame none besides him call home.

She slips on her white tank top and pulls her blonde locks of hair into a ponytail. Shooting him a glare, she snatches her purse from the bedside stand and retrieves her keys. 

“I slept with your brother last week. I felt guilty and ashamed of myself. But seeing you right now somehow makes all of those feelings disappear.”

Sex, that's what she uses? A smirk would cross his pallet, were he capable of one at this moment. Paralyzed by the toxins, frozen in the only state his mind could find peace in, little more than death could reach him. The infant seeks her shelter, all the while he creates his paradise, brimming from the tip of a needle. While the world crashes and screeches outside, his paintbrush prepares a requiem.

“Wonderful! Beautiful!” it shrieks, “Spectacular and astounding! These people, they take what isn't theirs, and they neglect! Yet you take nothing, and give what none can receive!”

What none can receive? Then what's the point of even trying to give it? 

“That's not the question that need be asked! Look!” 

His eyes seem to be forced open, jerking him from his slumber. Light pierced his eyes, flooding in and blinding him. The veins behind them throbbed, pressing against his skull and sending pain coursing throughout his mind. After several moments of adjusting, the shapes and light came into focus. An engorged pig stood atop a stump in the center of a clearing within a dark, frozen forest. Snow blankets the floor beneath towering trees, thickets of thorns and brightly colored flowers left lifeless and daunting by the fresh white powder. A shock of strawberry blonde hair curled and nestled up beneath a fine black top hat lined with felt and ornate jewelry.

Pointing towards the sky, the sun, encircled by the vague outlines of the tree tops surrounding the forest, seemed to make tiny arrows pointing directly into the heart of the flames of the enormous star. Flecks of blue and green seemed to remain stagnant in the air, the sun bouncing light and bringing them to life.

“The sun takes nothing! None of us asked it to provide for us, but there it is!” the pig exclaimed, almost cackling. “But does that mean that we can't still appreciate it?”

Confused, the man sat there in the clearing, blinking his eyes, and trying to figure out what it was that brought him to this strange place.

“The sun also provides for other planets, as well. We're not the only ones leeching off of it's energy.” the man said, with a slight tinge of sarcasm and annoyance.

“So what you're saying is that since others leech, we should just accept it as well? Consider it gratis and move on? Why that's just absurd! We have knees, do we not? Something as simple as a gesture of gratitude can make all the difference!” the pig protested, almost pleading with the man.

“Well, think of this then. This sun could be providing you with plenty of energy and heat to sustain life here. But what of the other planets? What if there's an entire planet of people and organisms constantly being burnt for being too close? Did they choose to exist on that planet? And if so, did that planet choose to exist close to the sun so they'd all burn up?” the man snapped, clearly not in the mood for this pig's opinions.

“I... well, that is to say... I guess I don't know! There's a good and bad side to everything!” the pig squealed, frantically trying to come up with his rebuttal.

“You praise it for helping you, but in doing so, you must also be accepting the pain and torture it places on others. You accept every aspect of it. Nothing can be only partially followed.” the man replied, relaxing slightly.

The pig began to get frustrated. Scratching his chin, and looking frantically around the forest, he scrambled to think of something to say. All the rehearsal, everything he believed in, seemed to leave him all in one instant because of this stranger. How much of his life had he blindly followed as well? What else is wrong that he holds so dear?

“Look, I clearly just got a bit carried away, and this is all some sick hallucination.” said the man.

“Hallucination?” scoffed the pig, mocking him. “What makes you so sure? Question what you will, but the fact of the matter is that you appeared in my clearing. What is real remains to be seen, but for now, what you touch and feel, that's what is truly real. Besides, it's not like reality touched you prior to you stumbling here.”

“I can tell you what's real, friend, and this isn't it. This air, these trees, this grass, and lets not forget the damn talking pig I'm conversing with.”

“Get the needle out of your arm, and then we can talk.” the pig growled, “You're in no position to discern what's real! Why, how do you know the kitchen you fell from is not really just the place you fall to when you sleep here?”

“I don't know how you know where I came from, or what I do, but all I need is to wake up.” the man replied, clearly getting fed up with the pig. “If you've got no further advice than what the sun does for your small mind, then I'll just find my own way of waking up.”

“If you still believe it's a matter of waking up, then I've nothing left to say to sway your mind! Just be careful, we often go after one thing, when really it's another we want!” the pig chirped, snapping from his frustration and returning to his bouncing and energetic self once more. “If you continue north, you'll arrive where help may exist, but it'll only lead south. Although help undoubtedly won't be found.” 

“I see the reasoning behind why I made you a pig.” grumbled the man.

“And I see the reasoning behind why you are here!” chuckled the pig.

A vase collides against the wall behind him, showering him in porcelain, dirt, and dead flowers. Resting on his bed, propped up against his headboard with his gaze fixated on the ceiling, a woman steps into his room screaming. He can only make out a few words: junkie, fat, worthless. She screams louder, but still the words come out muffled and distorted. 

“You're fucking pathetic! Every time I show up here, you're shooting up, or already dead to the world!” the woman shrieks, fully aware of the neighbors and the likelihood of a squad car showing up again. “Why are you even still alive? You live for nothing but that fucking needle!”

Nothing seems to phase this man. Insults, pottery, it's all a slowly played out movie that never seems to come into focus. It's beautiful, how such hatred and animosity can be absorbed as such a neutral and bland feeling. People are such emotional creatures. It would be completely fine, were it not that the same creatures were incapable of letting those same emotions lash out and hurt others. Take care of your own dirty laundry, you childish piece of filth, he thinks, as his eyes close once more.

She once held his attention. A mutual disdain for the world, and a shared love for getting high. He got into heavier things though, and she never felt comfortable after that. His high left him more comatose than anything else now, when before they'd just watch movies and attempt to philosophize about their surrounding world. She grew out of it quickly though. The things that afflicted him were never the same as the ones she was facing, so it splintered and fractured until she got frustrated that he couldn't grow past them without getting high.

It suddenly became clear to him that he would never be able to relate to another human being. The one he tried to open up to now hates him, and he could never tell her everything that happened. There wasn't a single person he felt capable of existing with.

What seemed like hours had passed by, proving to show little to no progress in navigating the forest this man found himself lost in. The sun, once filling the air with wonder and brightly colored majesty, began to fall past the hills, and left him struggling to dodge large webs and barren tree limbs. The decrepit forest quickly gained life as the shadows cast from the setting sun caught his eye, leaving him looking behind his shoulder more often then he would admit.

The menacing caw of crows echoed in the distance and the rustle of branches scratching against the dry and peeling bark of trees tormented him. Sounds of fluttering wings grew louder, and seemed to fill the air until the noise was deafening. He clasped his hands to his ears, cringing as wind pressed the air from his chest and ripped at his clothes. When the wings and screeching faded and came to a halt, he looked up slowly, and removed his hands from his ears. Four crows, perched on the branches of a tree barely a foot directly in front of him, stared vehemently into what was left of his soul.

“Why don't we just save him the trouble and eat him?”

“He does seem hopeless. Best end his misery.”

“I can taste his desperation from here.”

“Tender flesh, lean muscle, and tendons for dessert.”

Frozen, he could do nothing but stare at the murder in front of him. A pig speaking was already a sign of a dream, but perhaps it's more of a nightmare. 

“I'm sorry, but being a meal for a pack of birds isn't my ideal evening.” he said, his voice slightly shaking. “If you could just tell me how to -”

“Murder.” screeched the first crow.

“Crows.” said another.

“You're lost.” the third cooed.

“And in more way then one.” chirped the last.

“I know, this forest seems to never end.” the man said, trying to hide the catch in his throat. 

“Impossible.”

“Not infinite, just lost.”

“Hiding, perhaps.”

“Let's eat him, spare him the trouble.”

“This is just some horrible drugged out nightmare.” he replied, starting to get frustrated. “You can say I'm hiding all you want, but I'm simply trying to get the fuck out of here.”

The beady eyes of the crows fixed on him, specks of red danced in the black holes that sat in their motionless heads. The velvet feathers seemed to come to razor sharp points in the gray backdrop of the otherwise dead and empty forest.

“Drugged, you say.”

“Hiding, we say.”

“Coward, they say.”

“Living, none say.”

“If I were dead, how would I be here right now? I'd just be some corpse splayed out in a casket beneath the ground.” he snapped, getting clearly annoyed. The crows remained still, continuing to stare. 

“Life.”

“Death.”

“Illusion.”

“Allusion.”

“You're not making sense! What's to stop me from just killing myself? I'd wake up then, wouldn't I?” he yelled, waving his arms around wildly.

The crows just sat there, staring at him as he broke down. Their cold gazes stabbed into the man, leaving him shaken and cracking. He reached his hand into his pockets, turning them out and finding nothing. Panicking, he began scratching and grabbing at his skin frantically. The air thickened and collected in his lungs like sludge, and his breathing grew harsh and ragged. Every breath he took added pressure until he felt like his lungs would explode. His vision began to cloud, the corners fading into darkness and sifting away the last shadowy figments of the crows perched on their branches.

Two

“Abby, this is my friend I was telling you about, the writer.”

A young woman stood in front of him, hand outstretched and smiling. Wearing a knit wool cap, a purple pea coat, blue jeans, and yellow rain boots, she attempts to awkwardly introduce herself.

“It's nice to meet you, I've heard a lot about you.” she said, blushing slightly. “I really like your poetry, it's beautiful.”

He stares blankly, wondering what to say. Compliments weren't foreign to him, but he never believed them. Or at least didn't want to for fear of being self-absorbed. 

“Thank you,” he says, “but most of that was written from a rather uncomfortable and unhappy place. It's really just a manifestation of everything that clouded me, so I rarely go back and read them. I've probably forgotten most of them, or at least large portions.”

“That's a shame, they're really inspirational.” Abby remarks, somewhat pleadingly. “They got me through some tough times, and motivated me during the good times.”

It happened all the time, and he was never sure of where to go from here. It's the same problem he always has. 

“Would you care to sit down?” he said, motioning towards the open seat in front of him. “You can join us if you'd like, Sean.”

“That's okay.” said the man who walked in with Abby. “I'm actually running late, I've got to head back to work. I just wanted to introduce the two of you.”

Sean turned and left, offering up his goodbyes to him and Abby, leaving the two to sit uncomfortably at the table together. Abby sat across from him, still blushing, and staring at the napkin resting in her lap.

“So Sean tells me that you're an art major. What medium do you usually use?”

“I sketch a lot, but I love painting. Something just relaxes me when I have a paintbrush or pencil in my hand, like I can just block out the rest of the world.” Abby shyly replied.

“I think I'm beginning to see why Sean wanted me to meet you. I paint quite a bit, too.” he said, sitting up in his seat and taking a bit more notice. “We should take a look at each others works sometime.”

Abby's eyes immediately lit up and met with his. “I'd love that!” she said, almost loud enough for the entire diner to hear. “I mean, um, if you're available to. I had no idea you painted as well.”

“There's quite a bit I don't usually care to share about myself.” he mumbled, trailing off a bit.

“He's dead.”

“Let us feast.”

“Not as fun, though.”

“Food isn't fun.”

His eyes were the first to awaken, slowly peeling back and revealing dozens of crows now lining the bare branches and bushes in front of him. The arms join the mind, coming to life as he drew them close to his chest, propping himself up and resting on his legs tucked in beneath him.

“What is this? More friends means less food for each of you.” the man smugly remarked.

“Not time for food.”

“Time for trial.”

The crows began speaking out of turn and randomly within the murder, but somehow stayed in unison, and keeping time eerily.

“A trial, huh? And what am I being tried for?”

“Trespassing.”

“Murder.”

“I'm still fairly new to this, but shouldn't I have a lawyer or something? Which one of you feathery bastards wants to hop down here?”

“Bastards, we are not.”

“Lawyers, we are not.”

“Well then kick me out, if I'm trespassing!” yelled the man, as he climbed to his feet, now fully awake.

The crows began to caw loud, flapping their wings and shrieking at the freshly conscious man. A single crow fluttered from the back, and gracefully flicked around the mans head until resting on a branch a foot away from him.

“You've lost your way, friend.” the crow squawked. “Unfortunately for you, none of us feel compelled to change that.”

“But you just got done saying I'm trespassing? And what the fuck is this about a murder?”

The crow's head jutted restlessly back and forth, never breaking eyesight with the man. “You've been sent here to my court. We're the Court of the Murder, and you've found yourself trapped beneath our heavy gaze.”

Staring in shock at this crow, the man could find no words to describe his frustration and the pounding headache encroaching on his mind did little to help.

“I'm sure you're well aware of your surroundings, as it's quite the vibrant color of death that us crows flock to so well. There's something beautiful and iridescent within the array of grays that grace us every day.” the crow cooed, slowing to a whisper suddenly. “And just between the two of us, I couldn't ask for more. But you see, my colleagues behind me are quite the restless bunch. They see a man, let alone, a foreigner to these parts, and immediately what springs to their mind is a feast. But here's the tricky part, because contrary to popular belief, we crows enjoy feeding our minds just as much as we do our craw.”

“So then you'll just bombard me with a series of riddles while tearing the flesh from my bones? Is that it?” the man replied exasperatedly. 

“Look around you! The pig has his grove, the peasants, their square, but the crows? What do we get? The corners of the kingdom none would otherwise claim as their own? We've little time for your smart mouth, and even less time in regards to flesh ripe with warm blood. Little more than worms and maggots enter these forests, and when you arrive unto us, practically wrapped in a bow and slapped with a tag, it takes quite a bit of restraint for us to not show you one of the greatest pains a man can feel. Now, be a sport, and accept the terms.” the crow bellowed, squawking and jumping on its branch.

“Abby”

“Yes?”

“Open your eyes”

“Wake up!” the crow perched on the man's head, quickly pecking at his hair.

He was wretched back to consciousness, awoken to the loud cries of the crows, screeching at him. Slowly opening his mouth, he calmly replied, “Okay. I'll accept.”

The crows all cried out in excitement, jumping up and down on their branches and flapping their wings. It wasn't everyday that they were able to experience such trials, and each of them knew the treat they'd surely be in for. 

“Follow us to the still water.” the crow screeched, soaring into the air, quickly followed by the hundred or so crows that compiled his now vacant jury. Gathering his thoughts and slowing his breathing, he stared and watched as they flocked skyward, almost disappearing completely into the night sky.

Branches scratched and caught at his clothing as he ran, somewhat stumbling, through the thick and unrelenting forest. Unsure of what was real, and what simply was him, he left it all behind where the court adjourned. Proceeding forward was only a man seeking answers to something he felt was greater than crows or a forest.

“It's for you, Abby.”

“I- I don't know what to say. It's so-”

“There was a man I knew. He sat alone, confined inside a room. This man was given a pad of paper, pencils, and never once sought refuge anywhere but these blank sheets of paper. He filled each of these pages up with what he considered to be his thoughts. His ideals, how he saw the world, and his hatred all spilled out of him. All of these feelings were created and conceived without ever stepping outside of his cage, and his narrow views never let him see what life was really like. He wrote every day, and page after page of spite and torment were turned out, never to be read again by him, just neatly tucked away and filed.”

Her eyes were fixed on his, and every word that left his mouth was quickly snatched up and indulged in by her. “And what did he do?”

“He died.” he said, softly whispering. “The weight of a world he never saw crashed on him.”

He began to slap himself, trying to stay focused and wake up. Shaking his face and blinking his eyes quickly, he realized how much his clothes looked as if he had fallen down a jagged cliff side. Blood trickled down small gashes and fabric dangled and tossed back and forth as he crashed and tumbled his way through the desolate forest.

The sudden silence deafened the man, hearing nothing over the sound of his own racing heart and blood coursing as he panicked, thinking he had lost them. Why did he suddenly feel so compelled to play along with this nightmarish world's games? Moments ago he was ready to die and be rid of this monstrosity of a land, and now he's clutching at the very scraps of what he could call reality.

A root jutting out from the ground caught his foot, plummeting him to the hard ground as he suddenly found himself somersaulting into a clearing with a small body of water no larger than a child's pool. The murder found themselves once again perched on various branches and tree stumps as they watched and seemed to cackle at his less than delicate entrance.

“A beggar slunk up to me, once. On the edge of his life, he raised his bony and wrinkled hand and placed it upon my wing.” said the crow that appeared to be orchestrating the entire murder. “He said, 'Crow, I've got a year left in me, at best, mere change in my pockets, and cataracts that leave me mostly blind. My children and grandchildren have left me, my wife has passed away, and my mind slips me. But the taste of wine on my lips leaves a stain that covers the scars of so much passing.'” 

Staring at the crow perched on a platform that rose from the center of the pool of water, he clutched at his chest that felt as if it had caught fire from his fall. Coughing, his hands began to overflow with blood as it dripped down past his fingers, and cascading to the grassy clearing.

“I took away his tongue, stranger. And do you know what he did then?” the crow cawed, swooping off his post from the center of the pool and gliding down to the puddle of blood gathering beneath the man. “He came back a year later, ten times as strong and full of life, and he found me. Dropping to his knees, he thanked me. Without the motivation for revenge, he would never have lasted another year, let alone a month. Instead of seeking handouts for more wine, he strengthened his body and mind, in hopes to return and kill me.”

 

Nothing came in clear to him, as if everything the crow said was trying to poke holes in a sheet that shrouded his mind. Little rays of light caught his gaze, but the thumping heartbeat and gasping for air made it difficult to listen to anything the crow had to say.

Puffing up his chest and spreading his wings, the crow cried, “You know, death isn't a suitable reason to ignore me!”

Finally catching his breath, the man looked up, and asked, “So what is it that I'm suppose to do here?”

The crow looked to the pond, then looked back at the man. Raising his wing and pointing, he said slowly, “You're to walk over to the pond, and reach into it.”

“That's it?” coughed the man. “All this effort to put my hand in some water? What's the catch?”

Silence was all that greeted him, as the crow stared at him, still resting on the grass in front of him. As he climbed to his feet, balancing himself on a nearby tree, the crow took off and disappeared within the murder lining the forested area. The pool of water sat still about ten feet in front of him, but the blood loss and exhaustion made it seem even further. 

Gathering himself, he gave himself a slight push off of the tree and lurched forward towards the water. The nearer her got, the more entranced he became. Light from the moon bouncing off the top of the water shined and captivated his eyes. It was as if the pool itself was talking to him as he was unable to break his eyesight away. As he neared the edge, he dropped to his knees, and gazed into the reflection of himself staring at him in the water.

Not a single ripple in the water crossed across its surface. The full moon shone brightly, and the tops of the trees etched their way on the border, creating a sort of wreath to house its luminescence. His hand slowly dipped into the surface, and a feeling of serenity and bliss washed over him. The water remained perfectly calm as his entire forearm became submerged. 

Hunched over, arm deep within the water, he could see nothing beyond the reflections on the surface. He sat there for a minute, his mind flooded with images of his happiest moments in life. His first love, the first published work he ever wrote, and he couldn't remember the last time this feeling had ever been so vibrant and clear.

An arm shot up from the water, feverishly scratching at him until it finally clenched onto his shoulder, dragging him down into the depths of the pool. Completely beneath the surface, a bright light spread and filled the water as he floated, still in a state of ecstasy. A bloated and pale corpse floated lifelessly towards him, wretched and vile looking as the day its body was presumably exhumed from the ground, judging by the mud and random spots of twigs and leaves that clung to it. A young woman, with blonde locks of hair and a tattered dress that matched the tone of her lifeless skin approached him, eyes closed tightly and mouth slightly agape.

His eyes shot open, and his mouth gasped in fright, screaming silently as his lungs became filled with water. Clawing at his chest, he began to swim upwards towards the surface. The corpse sprang to life, latching onto his ankle and weighing him down. Slowly he made his way closer to the surface, his lungs contracting and shooting with pain, as if his entire chest were spread too thin, moments away from splitting open and spilling forth all of his organs to be trapped forever in the desolate oblivion beneath him. Darkness etched its way to the corners of his vision, drawing closer as he swam further. Unable to draw a breath, he swam as fast as he could, dragging behind him a reanimated nightmare.

Finally, the surface drew near. Every vein in his body throbbed and pulsed with pain that tensed up every muscle in his body, but he broke the surface and gasped for air. His vision began to clear, but the feeling of the bony and decaying hand wrapped around his ankle left his muscles tense and his mind frantically trying to sober up. Shooting forward, his hands dug into the grass as he pulled himself out of the water.

“Sean, I don't need any help.” he said, slumped over in his chair.

“You barely leave the house anymore. The only times you do, it's to get more of this bullshit that's killing you, and you can sit there telling me you don't need any help?” Sean plead, trying to save his friend and make him see reason.

“I don't know why you keep coming over here. Every time you do, you get frustrated and leave. If this is what gets me through another day, then so be it. I know what I'm doing to my body.”

“Look, I know that she's gone, and I know that you loved her, but she wouldn't want this.”

“Sean, stop vomiting up bullshit others say to feel bigger than someone else. Of course she wouldn't want this, because she didn't want to be fucking dead. But she's gone, and nothing either of us say will change that. Grow the fuck up and face reality.”

He leaned over and opened a small box next to him on a coffee table. Inside was a spoon, a lighter, a small baggie, and a syringe. 

“Now if you'll excuse me, I can once again speak coherently and understand people, so it's my time to once again depart.”

Shaking his head, he tried to stay in reality. The fresh air stung as he drew deep breaths, filling his lungs up as much as possible. The pounding in his head dissipated, and his vision cleared up as he made it completely out of water. Looking down at his ankle, he still saw the pale and boney hand that ferociously clung to his ankle as he drew himself further out. As he continued backwards, he was followed by more of the body, a bloated arm with skin that was decaying and flaking off in spots. Finally, a blonde patch of hair began to emerge, matting down and covering the face of the corpse. The entire body quickly emerged from the water, revealing the white dress and pink hem that was once full of color and beauty.

The creature relinquished it's grasp on him and wretched to life. Loud pops and cracks from her bones adjusting and repositioning themselves shattered the silence as she sat up, propping herself up on her legs and using a tree branch to hoist herself up off the cool grass. She slowly lifted her head to meet the gaze of the horrified man, and as she parted her hair to better see him, he let out a loud cry, and quickly latched onto a tree to prevent himself from falling over.

“Abby?” he quietly murmured to himself, as if he was talking to himself.

She lunged forward at him, toppling over and crashing to the ground. Her mouth opened slightly, and a faint but chilling gurgling billowed out. Frozen, he couldn't look away as she crawled closer to him. The few nails she had left on her hands broke away and splintered in the dirt and rocks, and her guttural cries grew louder. A black slimy substance began to pool out of her mouth, trickling down her chin and trailing behind her.

“The water.” squawked the crow. “You need to put your arm back in. That is, unless you'd prefer being your lovers soggy meal.”

He jumped to his feet and sprinted for the water. Diving, he slid to the edge of the pool and once more, dipped his arm into the water. His arm frantically searched the water as she turned to face him once more. As she drew closer she began to let out a deafening screech, sending a chill down his spine and his blood rushing. He felt an object float into his hand, and almost instantly grasped it and ripped it from the pool of water. In his hand was a jagged and worn dagger, as horrifically aged and distorted as the corpse that chased him.

“No, I- I can't” he said, clutching the dagger to his chest. “I won't do it.”

“You must.” the crow cried, followed by a raucous of screeching from the rest of the murder. “It has to be done. She isn't meant to live this way.”

Tears began to spill down his cheek as his body trembled. Her cries relentlessly continued, digging beneath his skin and paralyzing him. He already lost her once, his dear Abby. If he were to lose her once more, by his own hand, none the less, he knew he wouldn't be able to go on any further. Staring into her milky eyes and scarred flesh, his stomach cramped up and his heart's beat slowed to a halt.

“No. You're not my Abby.” he cried. “Maybe you once were, but you're just a horrific shadow of who she once was.”

He got to his feet slowly, the corpse only a couple feet away, and he readied the dagger in his hand. 

“I'm so sorry, Abby. I loved you, I truly did. You've no idea how lonely it is without you.” he said, wiping the tears out of his eyes. “Food tastes bitter, people became chores, and my own mind turned against me. I let you down, and I've let myself down. Every night I have to get high just to let another day pass without my heart crushing and giving up. I never even got a chance to say goodbye to you. You just left so abruptly.”

She clutched his leg, and reached up using his pocket and shirt to pull herself up closer to him. His arms dropped to his side, and he took one last look into her eyes.

“I'm sorry.” he said, as he quickly slipped the dagger into her side, tearing the flesh and piercing what little organs she had left which hadn't liquified. She let out a painful cry, and blood began to rush out of her puncture. Gushing out onto his hand and drenching his shirt, she scratched and clawed at his chest until she slunk to the side and drooped lifelessly in his arms. 

Crying, he gently knelt down and placed her body softly onto the grass. The crows watched silently as he pressed her against his chest, holding her and crying into her stringy blonde hair. He closed her eyelids and brushed away the stray strands of hair from her face. Reaching down, he grabbed the dagger and placed the tip to his chest above his heart. Pulling back, he let out a breath of air, and then slammed it into himself.

Slumped over in a booth inside a diner, the man stares outside a window. His black coat sits next to him with his tie resting on top of it. The white button down shirt he was wearing is now pulled out and undone. Bits of dirt that had collected on the underside of his dress shoes began to flake off onto the ground, and a cup of black coffee sat in front of him. His eyes were bloodshot and tears stained his face as he tried to rid himself of a ghost.

Across the table was another man, looking equally distraught, but more focused on his friend. His appearance was clean cut and tidy, shirt tucked in, tie still perfectly adjusted, and coat neatly folded and placed to his right gently. He found himself opening up his mouth a few times, but was unable to form any words. The loss that had left his friend so crippled startled him, and shook him deeper than anything before. He had always seen him as the stoic writer, the one who kept to himself and let the words he had to say sit on parchment rather than his tongue.

The waitress came back and filled both the coffee cups once again. She looked over at the man staring out the window and seemed to start to say something. His friend quickly met her gaze and caught her before she could say anything, shaking his head and mouthing the word no to her. He knew that his friend just needed space right now, and contemplated leaving himself had he not driven his friend to the funeral procession. 

“I'm going to walk home.” the man said, still peering out the window. “It's not much farther from my house, and I think I just need to walk a bit and get some fresh air.”

“Alright, if that's what you want.”

“It is. Thanks for the ride, Sean.”

Sean stood up, collected his things, and put few dollars on the table for the coffee. As he walked past his friend, he gave him a quick pat on the shoulder, and left the diner. The man watched as Sean walked back to his car. A vision of Sean and Abby first stepping out of the same sedan flashed into his mind, recalling the day Sean first introduced them. 

Abby had done more for him than anyone else ever had, and undoubtedly saved him from self-destruction. Before meeting her, his life was a flurry of nights writing as he was high off a cocktail of pills, all of which were washed down with whiskey and vodka. There were numerous times where he found himself reading his previous nights work and becoming completely dumbfounded at the dribble that had spewed from his pen. But once in awhile he would come across something that would revitalize his faith in his practice. 

While he knew it wasn't the healthiest of routines, it assuredly produced results and allowed his mind to freely wander. Last night, the same mixture of muscle relaxants and painkillers found their way back into his system, however, instead of freeing him, they left him paralyzed with his past memories of his loved one. He was hardly able to pull himself out of bed for the funeral, and was frustrated with his weak mind for having to escape someone that he use to never wish to stop thinking of. Tonight he was aiming for something a bit more powerful, though.