Trent Jamieson - Managing death

They must have been there for a while, silently waiting for my scrutiny: a shivering darkness spread across the lawn. Sharp beaks. Slick black feathers, glossy with the rain. A thousand crows, at least. And they have bowed down low, their wings extended.

'Awcus, awcus,' they caw.

I dip my head.

HD seems pleased, all this laid out for it and me. I raise a hand, gesture towards the sky. As one they beat their wings into the angry air, and batter hard against the rain. The vast murder of crows breaks from the ground, finds the night sky and is gone. I could have dreamed the whole thing, but for the dark feathers fluttering down.

Awcus.

I walk into the living room and pour myself a drink, a big one.

Lissa's asleep when I stumble back into the bedroom. The rain hammers on the iron roof but it's ebbing. HD roils within me, grinning its ceaseless grin. But I force it down. I'm tired and on my way to being drunk. I can't stifle a yawn. I settle next to Lissa, slide my arm around her. So tired. She moans something in her sleep, then calms.

The dying rain and Lissa's breathing are the most perfect sounds in the world. I'm not sure when sleep claims me.

Death. Mayhem. Madness and blood. The metronomic sweeping of the scythe.

But I sleep soundly.