The Crow of Spirit and Longing

I force the laugh out of my lips, clinging to the hope of it changing everything. It sounds harsh. Cold. Simply wrong. But no. It has to be right. I don’t allow the thought of it being incorrect to reach my brain. Because if it reaches, it will never leave. Like lice amongst hair. I will have to comb through it and even then I may have to cut it all off. No, it's too dangerous. I can’t risk it.

I can’t

I unwillingly force my head up and out of the hollow of my neck. My eyes meet my own in the mirror. They pierce back at me, black, cold. I was careful to wipe away the trail of tears before looking. 

Before I looked and cringed at my own self for grieving. Grieving for the death of my father.

I force the laugh out again; it almost chokes me. It's too loud, too sudden. It penetrates through the silence and bounces off the walls and ceilings. Even they don’t want to hear it. But it worked. Because it caused me to think about the laugh and nothing else.

My eyes in the mirror match my clothes. In twenty minutes' time, they will come and force upon me what they believe is reality. 

It's not. It's not.

Unable to bear the cold look within the depths of my black eyes any longer, I gather up my skirts and go to the dusty window. I have spent most of my time here recently. Nature mocks my black apparel with its bright shades of blues and greens. They captivate my black eyes, leaving my head empty for a couple seconds. Sweet seconds. I lift my head slightly, blue and white fill my eyes, my head, my mind. And black. Wait black? How-

A black bird swoops down, its wing brushing the outside pane of the window, causing me to exhale. I expect it to swoop back up and join the rest of its flock, but it stops on the ledge. I stoop lower so that I am at eye-level with it. I still myself and the crow seems to be copying me - only its little heartbeat rising and falling hastily. His eyes are white - a stark contrast to my own. He seems to be staring intensely into my eyes, the whites bright against his black pupils.

A smart rapture at the door pulls me out of my short-lived reverie. I curse myself for having been unpresent. I straighten up quickly, turning my back against the bird. 

Will he leave me too?

“Come in,” I call, forcing my voice to rid itself of any shakes.

A gentleman clad in black enters, his eyes firmly placed on the floor at his feet. I swallow, knowing what comes next.

“Miss Evans,” he says “Mistress and Master Evans are awaiting your arrival in the drawing-room.”

My mother and brother. Not Father Evans.

He bows and leaves the room, gently shutting the door behind him.

The moment he leaves I spin around to check for the bird. My heart sinks as the absence of its body perched on the ledge reaches my eyes. I turn back around to face the door yet again, only to hear a slight bristle against the windowpane.

After a while of earning its trust by steady eye contact, I finally allow it in. The crow seems wary; hesitant.

Rightly so I think.

It flies onto my bed, opposite my mirror, and looks at its reflection. A sudden bubble of amusement rises in the back of my throat as I wonder how long the crow had been watching me. I push it down quickly, red arising to my cheeks.

My mind foggily attempts to remember what on earth birds eat. Worms? Seeds? I look wildly around my room as if expecting worms and seeds to protrude out of my floorboards. Shaking my head at my disillusionment, I sluggishly creep closer toward the bird. 

The thought is at the back of my mind, but pulling it to the forefront would make me feel silly. There’s no way in heaven. Or is there?

This bird is my dad's spirit.

Too late I think. Now I'm thinking it. 

The heavens sent down to me my father's spirit.

In an attempt to convince me that he was no more? If so, the heavens certainly did a good job at that. There’s no point in holding back the tears now. Mother, as much as she may wish, is well aware that I do not plan on meeting them in the drawing-room, so I have plenty of time. The bird's gaze seems to intensify at my tears for a split second; a moment so brief I’m convinced I imagine it. Almost as if it were sympathizing with me.

No that’s crazy.

I wonder what I should do with this bird. If it is, in fact, a spirit sent down from the heavens, I couldn’t possibly give it up. That would be a huge insult. I cajole the devil in my mind to keep the crow. 

I slowly sit on the edge of my bed, next to it. It isn’t the slightest bit startled; in fact, it seems to scoot the tiniest bit towards me, too. I push out the nagging worries of having to look after it for the whole summer, and lay down, my legs hanging off the side of my bed. The crow comes toward the side of my head and buries its head in my blankets. I stifle another laugh, less red rising to my cheeks than hitherto.

Dad always did have the best jokey side to him; a side that mum seems to lack, I think with a heavy sigh. 

Warily, I wrap my arms gently around the crow's small, furry body, its little heartbeat pulsating on my skin. I turn onto my side and hold it to my chest, stroking it every now and then till its white eyes grow heavy and eventually close. I’m blissfully unaware of how long it takes me to fall asleep, but my eyes also form lead weights and my lids are finally pulled down.

The last thing I feel is the soggy pillowcase pressing hotly to my left cheek.