The Unkindness of Ravens

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1

"What sort of warrior is

this who battled once and fell?

And now retreats forever. Half

alive, half hovering in limbo.

Waiting for the scavengers

to swoop

And feast on his necrotic flesh.

The Valkyries, those

choosers of the slain.

Regret their dead and mourn

the sick spent shell.

That they let live instead."

In our last session you told

me that you liked taking pictures.

What kind of things do you

like taking pictures of?

Nature.

Wildlife.

Can't be much

of that in the city?

Do you ever take

pictures of ravens?

- No.

- Why not?

You know why.

Talk me through it again.

Talking doesn't help.

The more you talk about your memories

the less power they have over you.

Sit.

I write poetry

sometimes.

But you've never written

about Afghanistan?

There's nothing

poetic about war.

The poetry is in the pity.

I'm going to make

a deal with you.

A friend of mine owns a

place in the Highlands.

An artist's retreat.

It's going to be

empty all month.

You spend some time there.

And by the time you're back I'll

have found you somewhere permanent.

If you want things to get better you're

going to have to make some effort.

You know what the

alternative is.

I'm not going back to that shithole.

- It's a good facility.

Look I've seen people recover from this,

but never by ignoring the problem.

You go down that road

well, it's not a good road.

Here's the address and the key.

I got you this.

On one condition.

You keep a diary. Pictures,

poems, whatever.

Keep track of what you're doing and

more importantly what you're feeling.

Hello?

Oh, no.

F***.

F***!

Sort it out.

Sort it out. Sort it out.

It's all in here!

Sort it out!

"Oh, little bird.

You never saw it coming.

The enemy intangible,

but fierce.

The windowpane as

solid as the palisade

to fragile bodies,

delicately made.

You did not ask for life. You

knew not deat's portent.

And yet both uninvited came.

And wreaked their wonders and their

terrors both on your frail form.

Now, nothing but a shell.

Shocked, into dust."

Oh.

Sorry about

that... buddy.

I couldn't let you do it.

What are you talking about?

We're talking about the

birds and the bees.

Or just the birds if you please.

This isn't happening... this isn't

happening... you're not real.

Man up, Andrew.

You're not real!

Open your eyes!

While you still have them.

What do you mean?

You know what we mean.

They didn't spare us that day.

They saved us for last.

This makes no sense.

Sense... sense?

Sense, is so subjective.

And these...

these are no ordinary birds.

Do you know what

they said to me?

They said the flesh tastes

sweeter when the spirit is dead.

Isn't that dreadful Andrew?

Isn't that just terrible?

They're waiting.

They're waiting until we are...

I have to get out of here,

I have to get out of here!

- Back to the city.

- Aye, go.

Go where you like.

But they will follow us.

They'll follow.

Just like they followed us here.

They're waiting.

They're waiting in the trees.

Take their picture and they'll

finish us Lickety split.

Angela.

F***... I'm seeing things.

You're in a new

environment, it's to be expected.

I don't think you'd expect to

see what I thought I'd seen.

What did you see exactly?

My double, my evil twin.

I had a conversation with it.

I just want to be away.

I want out.

You know and I know that

what you're seeing isn't real...

Have you been writing?

- Some.

- Well keep it up...

Take everything out your

head and put it on the page.

"Mars, the God of war rejoices

in the acrid redness

of this hell on Earth.

Where earthly joys are

echoes of whispers.

Where humanity is... bestial.

Debased by duty.

Here is dust and blood,

rust and crimson.

Elements entwining

in a Devi's pact

to steaming moats of mud

around the leaking dead.

The spewed lava of the living,

pooling stagnant in the sand.

What glory is here?

What pride?

What do we prove by fighting?

What do we win by losing

everything worth having?

Our blood, our limbs, our minds

our innocence, our faith

in some benevolent design.

Our pasts are trampled

into scorched earth.

Our futures blighted with

the burden of living

after so much death."

And we were doing so well.

You're not real.

- Oh, yes. You've been talking to Angela.

Good old Angela.

Ah, she means well, bless her.

But she's never been

to war has she?

She's never had to watch

as her friend's arm

her friend's leg, her friend's head

has blown fifty feet in the air.

She's never had to sit there watching

them writhe with a gushing stump

wondering when

it'll be our turn.

But I'll tell you something.

It's our turn now.

And we better be ready, soldier.

I want you to go.

We can't leave.

We have to prepare.

For what?

For battle.

No offense, Andrew

but we're not going to

kill them with poems.

Eh, especially not

any of your's.

No, we're going to need axes,

we're going to need guns.

We're going to need to get our head

out the sand and get ready to fight.

Fight - fight - fight

fight - fight - fight - fight!

The war is over.

Oh no, it's not.

It isn't over

because they won't be happy until

they get their sharp, black beaks

in our soft white eyes.

Stop it!

Hey, if you don't believe me,

take a look at your photos.

You'll see them.

Hi, this is Angela.

Hi, hi Angela.

Sorry I can't come

to the phone just now

but if you leave a message I'll

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