Whispers of the Wicked: Screams in the Night

Screams in the Night

He was losing his mind. 

He had already lost it. 

But that night, oh that cruel night! How could he forget that damn cruel nasty night!-- when he lost everything! His ego, his attitude, his life, his dreams, his parents– everything he worked for. Even his job. 

Just because of that damn crow.

Suddenly, this crow here before him became unattractive. Suddenly, crows were no longer his favorite. Suddenly, he lost the will– the determination to kill this crow. It would have brought him no satisfaction. 

He was indecisive. For the first time in his life, he was indecisive. He wanted to kill that damn crow but at the same time, he wanted to protect it. 

What exactly did he need? 

He had no clue. 

"Am I just being insane? Or the world has gone mad?" 

Suddenly, a new urge– he needed to make a coffee.

Yes, he needed to make a coffee. So he went to the kitchen and made a cup of coffee, delicious and hot. But he was not going to drink it. 

Instead, he took the cup, and he lifted it.

And then he poured it over his head. The entire cup, scalding, came splashing down over his scalp, his face and neck, his shoulders. 

To his surprise, he did not feel anything. It was neither hot nor cold. There was not even a sensation of liquid. It was nothing. 

What was happening to him? 

"...should I visit the doctor?” he wondered.

His habit of soliloquy kicked in.

“No, they do not know anything! I am not mad: the world is!" He danced around the kitchen like a kid. 

The crow-- the poor bird-- was watching all this. If only it could talk. If only. It could have told him how insanely he was doing things, how brutally he was murdering people– and how ruthlessly he was treating himself. If only the poor crow could talk. 

The crow wanted to yell, to scream, to shout at him. But all it could do was caw to capture his attention.

"Oh, my dear little bastard! What do you need?"-- finally, his notice shifted– "Do you need something? Do you want me?" 

He kissed its beak, its head, its feathers. 

The poor crow wanted to tell him the truth but crows never talk. Or, at least, when they do, people tend not to listen. 

"May I kill you, my pretty boy?" he asked. For a creature like this– and only for such a creature– he needed permission.

The crow-- the most intelligent bird-- sensed the danger and looked into his eyes, straight; it gazed into his soul and for just a moment, he became afraid. 

He dropped the idea of killing it.

He knew it was all nonsense. He could not take revenge on a tiny bird. How could he? He was the most precious person in the whole world– the most-merciful, most-forgiving. He was the reformer, the maker, and the destroyer. 

He was not sure. He was not sure of anything. He was not even sure of his own existence. He was not sure. 

"Wake up, you idiot!!"

What?

"Wake up, wake up now." 

Someone was calling him. When he tried to open his eyes, it was his mother screaming and yelling at him– as always. 

"Wait, what?"

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Author's note: To read previous chapters, click the links!

For 1st, click here.

For 2nd, click here.

For 3rd, click here.

For 4th,  click here.