Crows

Trigger warning: thoughts of suicide.

My grandmother always told me that the universe is looking out for us. It would show us signs, telling us what to do and what would come. She told me of the time she saw crows everywhere she went and believed it was a sign from the universe that her time was almost over.

And as I cried over her still body, I couldn't help but hope. To hope that one day the crows would find me too. So I could see my grandmother once more.

The days since then have passed in a blur. Everything is the same routine. Stuck in boring lessons at school. Occasional talks with the counselors, them asking if I'm alright and me saying everything is fine. Ignoring the girls who make it their life mission to make me miserable. Sitting on a park bench with a bag of bird feed, becoming the crazy bird lady. But one thing stood out. The severe lack of crows.

It's as if the universe is taunting me for even thinking about it. In places where there would be an abundance of crows, there are suddenly none.

My grandmother was the only good thing in my life. Both parents took off when I was merely a baby, unprepared to actually raise the product of wild nights and alcohol. She took me in and raised me out of the kindness of her own heart. My social circle is practically nonexistent. The kids at school stay away from me, afraid to catch whatever bad luck the universe threw at me. Yet I'm fine with it. Better to have fewer people mourn me and better to just be forgotten.

I still can't make myself feel sorry for my tragic past. I'm too proud and too numb to do so. Perhaps it's the universe's way of preparing me for life in this cold, empty world. A sick way of toughening up the poor orphan. Everyone successful nowadays has some horrific thing in their past, claiming it made them stronger and the person they are now.

Some days I want to scream at the sky. To release my anger and frustration. Scream at the universe for ignoring me. But then I remember my grandmother's words.

One cannot rush the universe. Everything happens at a time for a reason.

So I wait. I wait for a crow to fly down and take me away from my miserable existence.

I have become so desperate to see that black-feathered bird. The thought occupies my mind 24/7. I want to wail my eyes out every time I see a pigeon.

Nobody thinks about crows this much. Not even someone who watches birds for a living would think this much about some measly bird that is considered as disgusting as a rat in the sewer.

Maybe if the sign was a better bird. Like a raven, or a bald eagle. It would make seeing it so much more special and I wouldn't look like a freak every time I asked someone where they saw that crow they complained about earlier.

And as I stand on the roof of my apartment building, I can't help but wonder. What if I jumped? Would anyone miss me? Would anyone care?

Of course, they wouldn't, but that doesn't look good in front of others. They would show up to my funeral with mascara running down their faces, bawling about how I was such a good soul and how I always knew how to cheer them up. Nobody needs to know they teased me ruthlessly and told me I wouldn't be missed.

Nobody needs to know. That's the beauty of the world. Lies are spun as easily as spiders spin silk. As long as you have a pretty tongue and a convincing smile, nobody doubts you otherwise.

In a supposed world of opportunity and testing the limits of the impossible, why can't I see a crow? It's rarely a thing people would label as impossible unless you live somewhere without a single crow.

Being in New York means I should see at least one crow. Right? The pigeons are everywhere, pecking at the ground in search of scraps. Neighbors complain of crows stealing lunches at the park. Taking a dump right on their newspapers. Being the menaces to society they're painted to be.

So why can't I see a crow? It's a question I've asked myself endlessly. It's just a stupid bird, but it means so much more.

I can't rush the universe. I have to wait for my sign to come when it needs to.

Despite having such a pessimistic outlook on everything, I hold my grandmother's stories and beliefs to heart. If she truly believed the universe was looking out for us, then I do too. It's better than believing in nothing at all.

As I walk down the stairs to the apartment which was left for me by my grandmother, I can't help but think.

Why is the universe so damn picky about who to help?

Maybe there's a lottery when you're born. The right configuration of stars or your zodiac sign or some other unbelievable theory. Maybe I had the wrong numbers and ended up on the universe's bad side.

Now wouldn't that be funny? A 17-year-old girl, cast out by this great cosmic power called the universe. It's such an absurd idea to even think about. But it would explain this unnatural lack of crows.

I settle down on my couch, my laptop propped up in my lap. A gentle pattering at the window catches my eye. It starts to rain, starting small but growing to a deafening crescendo of trying to beat up the glass.

I guess I should be happy that I made it off the roof in time to stay dry. Maybe the universe wants me to stay inside today. Much harder to see a crow when you're sitting inside a concrete box, wasting away time glued on a screen.

One cannot rush the universe.

So I will sit and wait for my crow.