"Do you think you've met this person before?"
The gentle voice of the counselor slithered and rested upon the bags which puffed beneath my eyes, a hollow breath raking through my nose as I tightly pursed my lips- my body a vacant shell.
Have I met him before?
It was the first thing I thought when I read the first letter all those months ago. His words, his compliments, his awareness of me; if she had asked Crow that, he would by all means say that we had met before, but me? Even while I was in college, I didn't have any friends outside of my roommates- never wandered far, didn't put in much effort to ever speak to anyone. Pinching the tension from my brow, I scoured my brain as hard as I could for even a sliver of oddity; any instance of unknowing interaction which could warrant such bloody, invasive actions.
"No." My voice sounded dead, even to me. It croaked from my splintered throat- the left over scruffiness endured from how I had screamed for my Dad that morning.
How long had it been since Christmas? A few days? A week? I couldn't even tell anymore.
"Are you sure you can't think of anything? Any small detail or hunch could help. Just for the sake of our conversation, trust your intuition."
My intuition? Involuntarily, a bitter chuff exited my mouth with a miffed countenance.
"In the letters," I started, "He said I helped him." My eyes cemented themselves to my fingers in my lap, conflicted.
"That's a good start. Does that help you narrow it down any?"
No.
This time, I thought it instead of saying it. It doesn't help, I wanted to say. Because I'm not a good person. In the past five years, I've never gone out of my way to help anyone; much less a stranger.
Me? An angel? A divine being? Crow must have been pulling some heavy-handed joke.
The silence pooled between us for a moment before the counselor sighed, her slim glasses sliding down her nose as she wrote something on a pitifully blank paper- resigned.
"Well, I'm glad you're less shocked. And, since the police came to your house, you haven't received anymore letters, right?"
Nodding my head, the counselor rose from her seat at the dining room table before packing up her laptop and papers into her carrying case; her actions pitifully dull. In fact, since opening Crow's 'gift', everything felt dull- as if there was some sort of gray filter covering everything in wake of the bright splash of blood and decay which had burned itself into my memory.
"It's hard to make progress like this, Carmilla. Hopefully next time we'll have more to work with." And with that, she pulled on her gloves and coat before walking towards the door; her every footstep growing louder and louder between my ears. As she put on her shoes, I found my muted mind humming again- it simmered with worries and disgust, with fear and fury.
When she leaves that door, I wonder what Crow thinks, I found myself thinking. Does he pride himself that he's affected me so much with his gift? That, this reaction- while heinous and revolting- counted as a victory in his eyes? Finicking with the loose fabric of my shirt, a shot of bitter poison tainted those notions too- the strings of the cloth beginning to break as I messed with them so anxiously.
What if he feels bad that I disliked his gift? Is he angry at me for my lack of gratitude for his... artistic declaration?
Rubbing my eyes, inky, metallic words took vague shapes behind my frayed exterior- and while I had every chance to address them with the counselor, I held them in the back of my throat with each new thought and worry; each musing and memory.
I almost wish... he still wrote me letters.
My neck flinched as those words took breath behind my eyes- my insides fluctuating and bowing like thin beams holding circus elephants- and it was just as torturously miraculous.
If he still wrote me letters, my simple mind sputtered, I wouldn't be left with the explosive wonders which had taken root in me ever since receiving his 'gift'. No matter how hard I tried to pluck them away, they always grew back; as if it were a cancerous weed. Somehow, I had became so conditioned to Crow's feelings, that now, the subdued part of my mind screamed in terror from the hollow absence. If it were before, I would have described our situation like two dancers twirling across a frozen lake; waltzing with one another as the ice cracked and hissed- how it pinged and rang like church bells from our trio-pal steps. With time, I could feel the taste of the sunrise pooling into the air; the dewy breath of the morning wetting my dry throat long before the sun ever kissed the horizon. At the very least, I could hear Crow's breath mingled with mine- his palms equally clammy as we twirled from bank to bank- his thoughts and affirmations loud and consuming.
Now, however, it was scarier to rest in the silence.
Was he still watching me? Was it all some cruel joke? Was he done with me, now that I had crumbled under the weight of his persistence?
Was he disappointed? Would his disappointment lead to my death? Where before Crow was a weak, pitiful stalker; now I had been given a glimpse that this was the farthest possible thing from the truth. I saw it in the glittering box he had given me- with the precise and cleanly sliced cuts into the crow's flesh; not even a feather fallen from its delicate sagging skin.
It was methodical. Spotless. Professional, even. It felt poised; like it was practiced hundreds of times.
The arteries delicately held in its own claws like spirals of satin ribbons; its heart glossy and unmarred like a crystal ornament. No normal, unthreatening person could have done something like that.
At night, I often found myself waking up from nightmares where it was my body within the box- my mind mixing Crow's words and actions into some abhorrent vision. It would start off like love- like gentle touches and loving murmurs; my heart hammering in my own chest while I struggled to move- the dream encased in fluttering black until Crow's voice echoed in my mind.
"I told you I loved you!"
"Why don't you believe me?"
And ironically, I didn't even know what his voice sounded like- but in my mind, it was a distraught, strained voice- it cracked from the weight of his disgusting emotions; his words wet with spit and vice. He would moan and groan as if in agony; and then the touches would turn harsh, until, as if by brute force, I could hear my own skin rip open and my ribs snap as he worked his way through me with the blood lust of a ravenous monster- all the way until I felt freezing cold hands touching my heart as it trembled upon his fingertips- the puffs of air from his breath tracing my organ; tickling its touch across every vein and cell.
The sensations were sickly- but perhaps what was worst of all was that, for such a graphic, gory dream, it never seemed to hurt no matter what he did. If he tore open my chest or bit into my skin; the dream was left only to the sounds, smells, and numbed touches- the vague sensations which passed through me in waves of electricity rather than agony. Night after night, touch after touch; death after death- I found myself craving the torture; the release only pain could bring. I thought, at least if it hurt, perhaps I would have the willpower to wake myself up rather than remaining in the tight shackles of sleep- the glittering cage Crow had planted within my mind like a skillful hunter.
Because at least now, that's what he was. He laid out a beautiful trap- even in my dreams. The comfort, the kind whispers- my deepest fears and regrets laid bare and gracefully cherished even in their imperfection- it made the sting of the trap that much more shattering.
The tenderness in his motions as he dissected every part of me, the strange affection only his hellish devotion could surmise- it existed too; it pulled at an invisible string in my spine which rose and fell by his command, like a perfectly constructed puppet. The "I love you"s and "You're everything to me"s caused something in me to tremble- as if, in this dark blot of definitionless time, they were all I ever craved to hear- like they were the only thing which proved I still existed.
And then, I would wake up.
I debated telling the counselor this dream too- this fear which I knew deep down was nothing more than psycho-analytical feeling-soup. And somedays, like today- while she lingered at the door for a moment more, her eyes shooting me a last, knowing glance- my mouth opened.
It mutely sputtered; my mind spoke into a hypothetical reality, picturing every outcome and scenario I could imagine. Yet, as I watched her wrist twist the doorknob, the frigid winter air spilled across the hardwood floors and brushed its scales upon my feet- the sounds and smells from outside smothering the words as they assaulted my senses; the cars which passed by on the icy street, the people who walked their dogs or checked their mailboxes.
This too, felt like Crow's trap. The illusion of normalcy- the net of false security which encased everything.
That very door, which I had clung to as my only sense of detachment from his reach, was the same portal through which he had entered this house- and who was to say that he didn't have more means of stalking me? What if some of his chess pieces included other people?
Just how far did Crow's influence reach?
If I told her, something in me said. He would know.
My words, anything which I said to her- it would slither outside and find him someplace, and he would hear them- down to every microscopic detail.
"Goodbye, Mrs. Shiva."
Those were the only words I could afford him to hear, and with them, the counselor nodded before slowly closing the door behind her- her body crossing the threshold of the house into the untamed outer-world;
The world which, by all means, had become his.