The Crow

Standing here again, by your grave, holding your necklace between my fingers-the Ankh-it was supposed to bring you eternal life; yet here I stand at your gravestone. It isn´t fair. But had I died in your place, you would have cried too, cried endlessly and forever with pain and grief. As the rain falls down I remember you and though I try to stop my tears, they keep falling, falling down my cheeks. I hang the Ankh on the celtic cross, then leave. You, out of all people had to be killed. And what´s worse, our last words were spoken in anger.

Drip, drip. That´s all that tap does, lately. Drip, drip. It just keeps dripping, like I can´t stop it, so instead I listen to it, hear it out. It drips waterdrops, or perhaps tears. Angel tears. I weep, weep with it. In the room we once sat, the light is sparse. Veils are hanging from the ceiling, dancing slightly in the wind. Outside, I hear a crow cry. I let it sing. Curl myself together, missing you, needing you. Once you lay beside me, stroking my cheek, looking at me with those eyes-making me addictive. How can I possibly live now? I wipe a tear away and try to go to sleep.

*

Midnight. Graveyard. A crow lands on the celtic cross, bathing in moonlight it´s almost silver to the sight. Next to the gravestone, an angel stands, in marble-its hands clasped. Graffiti´s sprayed on it, a maosoleum stands behind it, latin numbers carved into the stone.

Suddenly, two hands-pale as snow emerge from the earth. Hands grip air and a man comes up from the tomb. Reaching his arms, almost triumphantly to the sky he howls with pain and confusion. The crow spreads it´s wings, singing into the open sky above. Sights: ankh, death, murder, the stone angel, the crow, the tombstones. He stands tall, breathing. Freezing cold. His long black hair falls over his shoulders. he´s breathing like a newborn child for the first time. Gathering breaths, heaving.

He breaks into a store-a costume store. "gotta find clothes" he speaks, shuddering, stuttering. He finds himself a long black leathercoat and then some facepaint. There´s another.

The Crow myth comes with the belief that when people die, a crow takes their soul to the land beyond. But if that person died not by natural causes, a crow can bring that soul back to make wrong things right. There´s another now, another man walking the path of the dead seeking revenge.

*
Trembling. In his first hours of confusion, of death of pain. How can he walk around like this? He recalls almost nothing, only darkness and silence and then some clouded shape trying to help him through the darkness. The shape was indeed a woman, leading him through the strange maze of the kingdom of death. He followed and awoke. The crow flies above him, and he remembers. His beloved Anna. His beloved who still lives. He needs to see her, he needs to be close to her. He´s glad that she´s alive. (t.b.c)