The sins of a Crow

The Sins of a Crow

By H.J. Leak

I was young—

and I fell in love.

She was beautiful.

Gentle.

So full of tenderness

that she corrupted my heart.

She made it beat

uncontrollably.

And whenever she was gone—

beyond my reach,

beyond my grasp,

beyond my sight—

I ached for her.

Painfully.

I loved her as

a lion loves the kill,

as fire loves the forest,

as a murderer loves

his next victim.

I LOVED HER.

My heartache.

My hunger.

My Desdemona.

We met beneath the twisted oak—

where no leaf ever blossomed,

where the crows gathered,

always watching,

never her—

only me.

As if they knew.

Knew my thoughts.

Knew my desires.

Knew my torment.

She left, and I ached.

And the crows—

they knew.

They watched.

They saw it all.

But did nothing.

And each day I returned

to my sweet,

my love,

my Desdemona.

Under the twisted oak,

I told her how I loved her.

How I needed her.

How she made me ache.

But she never saw the wound she left.

Never knew the depth of my hunger.

Only the crows did.

Then one day,

under that cursed oak,

I took her hands.

Begged her:

Grow old with me.

Love me,

forever.

The sweat ran hot from my scalp.

My pulse, a war drum.

The crows—

those wretched beasts—

screamed louder.

Their squawks

blurred into words

I could not understand.

And my Desdemona,

my misery,

my soul,

whispered,

No.

She pulled her hands away.

And the crows—

they erupted.

A black, flailing sky of judgment.

And something in me broke.

When I returned to myself,

she was at my feet.

My sweet.

My love.

My Desdemona.

Butchered.

Bloodied.

My hands soaked in her crimson.

I killed her.

The crows shrieked.

They would not stop.

I held her.

And looked to the sky.

There—

amid the wings and screaming—

one crow circled.

Its feathers torn.

Its face twisted—

almost human.

Almost

mine.

It looked down

and spoke:

Wretched one.

Sinner.