Evil All Around

Behind a large stone wall, sheltered from the street, a small boy giggled. His dark hair dripped down his collar and his deep, shining, pitch-black eyes lit up in glee. He held in his hands just the thing he had been waiting for. A long, glittering, bloodstained knife. It looked almost white in the cold, black air and he felt that sense of power, of longing, needing to kill. Then he heard a noise, a slow scuffling that sounded like some sort of animal heading his way. He gripped his knife tighter.

The next morning, the boy stumbled into his house; small round face covered in mud, hair matted to his head, his little lips moving as though he was trying to speak.

“Where the hell’ve you been you little shit?” The large man sitting at the kitchen table growled from behind his newspaper. There was no reply. “Your poor mum’s been worried sick.” Still no answer. “Jimmy? Jimmy! Fucking well answer me right now!”

“Now Bob, don’t scare the boy. He’s only young and…” There was a loud thud from the direction of the door. Bob’s paper dropped onto the table and his wife spun around from the oven. On the cold, dingy floor in front of them laid their son’s body, long, curved knife buried to the hilt in his throat.

They had the funeral on a Sunday, Bob’s idea being that he had to go to church anyway, why not kill two birds with one stone. At the graveside everyone cried rivers. Everyone, except Bob. He tried to give some comfort instead, anything to get laid; since the brat died he’d been pretty much left to his own devices and was getting damned sick of it.

“Rachel honey, come here.” He held out his huge arms and enveloped her in a hug. She buried her face in his chest and sobbed, probably getting spit and shit like that all over his favourite leather jacket. Patting her softly on the back, he began to move his other hand down, resting it on her ass for a moment before squeezing it lightly. Her head jerked back.

“You fucking asshole. Our son just died and all you can bloody well think about is sex? You bastard!” Rachel turned and stormed off, long brown hair flapping in the wind. Bob groaned, he’d almost certainly fucked it up now; if he didn’t make up with her soon it’d be another lonely night in the bathroom, eyes closed, dick in hand, imagination working overtime.

“Hey, Rachel! Babe! Come back, I’m sorry!” He ran after her as fast as he could. In the shadows, the crow stood watching.

Later that night, he lay awake, right on the edge of the bed, on the verge of falling out. Rachel hadn’t been impressed by his halfhearted apologies. She never was. He hadn’t been able to get up, finding himself caring about her. Suddenly there was a soft sound from the cupboard. Bob froze. What on earth…? Then he swung his legs out of bed. The hell difference did it make if his wife didn’t want to? He was a man for god’s sake. Men have needs goddamnit. Needs their wives should see to. Bob tore off the sheets, Rachel lay there looking as lovely as usual with a couple of stray strands of hair falling over her soft face. He stood there gazing at her lovingly for a moment, and then he made his move.

She didn’t yell much. Only a couple of times did he use force to shut her up. But a couple of times was enough. When he was finished, he looked down, down into his wife’s cold lifeless eyes and thought once more, ‘what the hell’ve I gone and done?’ He lay there staring for what seemed like hours. Then his brain kicked in once more and he could only think of one thing-cover up. The first reasonable step towards this seemed to be getting up, so he tried that. And tried again. And again. Complete terror gripped him as he found himself trapped inside her. Unable to free himself at all, he went mad. There was no good way out of this one; there was solid gold evidence. Bob opted for plan B. The easy way out.

Sweat dripping from him all over, cold and shaking, he managed through a series of awkward movements, to get to his drawers. Panting, he dragged open the bottom drawer and was face to face with his pistol. He burst straight into tears. Everything had gone from just peachy to this…this awful terror, this paranoia and this dreadful, dreadful rush. There was only one way to escape these feelings and he knew what that was. There was no option any more, that gun was it. His entire shitty fucking life wrapped up in one pull of a trigger. It seemed a rather fitting way to go. He drew out the pistol and stuck it in his mouth. “I’m coming honey, I’m coming.”

The crow turned and flew back out of the window, travelling back to the church. In the blackness of the church tower, he once more resumed his silent watch over the town. He laughed softly inside his head, fucking stupid humans. So easy to control.

Suddenly, he caught a flicker of movement a few streets away and, unfurling his wings from his sides, moved off to the edge of the tower. He stared a few seconds longer before another flicker pinpointed the exact location for him. Then he flew silently into the darkness.