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Buku The Dead Girl in 2A: A Novel by Carter Wilson

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The Dead Girl in 2A: A Novel by Carter Wilson

Author:Carter Wilson [Wilson, Carter]

Language: eng

Format: epub

ISBN: 9781492686040

Google: J46IDwAAQBAJ

Amazon: B07NVVJYK5

Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc.

Published: 2019-07-01T16:00:00+00:00

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The Dead Girl in 2A: A Novel by Carter Wilson

Thirty-Seven

Ten feet away, a crow stares at me from the ground. Black, glimmering feathers. Graphite eyes.

He jumps in place, and something is clearly wrong. One wing is neatly tucked behind him, and the other juts out at an unnatural angle.

 

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The Dead Girl in 2A: A Novel by Carter Wilson

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The Dead Girl in 2A: A Novel by Carter Wilson

 

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The Dead Girl in 2A: A Novel by Carter Wilson

Author:Carter Wilson [Wilson, Carter] , Date: July 3, 2019

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Author:Carter Wilson [Wilson, Carter]

Language: eng

Format: epub

ISBN: 9781492686040

Google: J46IDwAAQBAJ

Amazon: B07NVVJYK5

Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc.

Published: 2019-07-01T16:00:00+00:00
Thirty-Seven

Ten feet away, a crow stares at me from the ground. Black, glimmering feathers. Graphite eyes.

He jumps in place, and something is clearly wrong. One wing is neatly tucked behind him, and the other juts out at an unnatural angle.

Broken.

More hopping. Then a feeble caw.

He is old. Old and wounded.

Ready to die, but fighting against it.

I try to ignore him but can’t. He hops around more, this time inching toward me. Then a screech. An awful screech.

I stand from the stump, lightly bleeding.

I walk in his direction, wondering what I would do if he let me reach him. Put him out of his misery? What an improbable scene. A murder-suicide with a crow.

The old crow turns and scrambles away from me, but he cannot fly. All he can do is hop, three or four bursts at a time before having to rest. But maybe he’s not resting. Maybe he’s waiting for me to catch up.

I get closer, my steps small and cautious. Trying to make myself as nonthreatening as I can, because I want to help. But really, what can I do? Fixing broken creatures is not something I do.

The box cutter warms as my hand starts to sweat. I imagine the razor glowing with heat. I can help this poor, old bird.

Another caw. Harsh, urgent. Three more hops.

Up a path, a narrow and uneven dirt trail partially obstructed by overgrown trees. If I didn’t really focus on it, I could hardly say it was a path at all. But it is. A path not taken in some time.

The crow shuffles under branches and directly along the trail, which itself is no more than a few feet wide. To follow him any more would take effort. And will I really kill this creature? Even if I caught up to him, could I really take him in my hands and slice through his throat, or twist his neck until it cracks?

The idea of his suffering is suddenly unbearable.

I crouch, the only way through the branches. Sharp wooden fingers scratch my neck and back, grasping at me like greedy witches. The crow keeps moving forward, squawking at me, a few feet away but forever out of reach.

This is beyond reason, but of course, beyond reason is by now an old and familiar place.

Closer, until the crow makes a last-gasp effort and hops frantically forward without stopping. Going and going, up the path, calling out as if summoning every creature of the woods to its aid.

I don’t want to hurt you, crow. I only want to kill you.

Blood from my small nick drips over my jeans. Drops fall to the ground.

I move faster, trying to keep up, pushing branch after branch out of my way. Some are dead, snapping like brittle bones. Others bend unwillingly. I scramble over a stump teeming with ants.

Finally, after what seems an eternity lost in the bramble, I see it. A small clearing. Fifteen more feet, maybe twenty. The crow stands under a shaft of light that has found its way through the towering trees.

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