Crooked Crows by Elena Lawson
Frank came apart beautifully.
His seams loosened bit by bit until his eyes grew wide and distant with hysteria. Until his sounds were nothing but whispers falling from quivering lips. Until his insides became his outsides.
With every piece of him that fell away, a piece of myself was returned. Until I was whole. And he lay broken at my feet.
His dirty soul in exchange for a moment of peace for mine.
Corvus coughed, and I remembered he was still there, standing at my back, like he always was.
I turned off the blow torch, stepping back to properly admire my masterpiece, tilting my head to get a better angle.
Bits of incinerated Frank floated in the sweltering heat of the old woodshed, sticking to my sweat slicked arms and bare chest. “I think it’s my best work,” I muttered with a smirk, looking to Corvus for confirmation.
He had his mouth covered with his ski mask, brows pinched from the smell. Corvus didn’t like the smell of cooked asshole, but I’d grown accustomed to it.
Corv cleared his throat and dropped the mask. “You think the Met might be interested? We’re low on cash. Could use the payout.”
I snorted. “Dip him in epoxy and...maybe.”
Corvus shook his head. “Nah, the fucker doesn’t deserve to be admired.”
“To the lake, then?”
“I was thinking the woodchipper, then bury the rest.”
“Even better.”
Corvus pushed out the door, and I hollered after him, not quite finished in here. “Can you pick me up another acetylene tank? I’m almost out.”
I tossed the near empty one to the side and let myself fall onto the short stool in the corner of the shed, where I could watch the little Frank flakes dance in the moonlight on their way out into the dark. I fished out a cigarette and lit it lazily, twisted the pre-rolled mix between my blood and ash coated fingers before taking a drag.
Fuck.
I tipped my head back to rest against the rough wood wall and inhaled deeply through my nose, relishing the feel of nothingness. The stillness of my body. The quiet in my head.
Fucking peace.
Just like the first time.
Grey followed me that night, when I snuck out of Barrett’s Home for Boys. I knew he was there, tailing me in the shadows, but I didn’t tell him to go back. I think part of me wanted him to watch. So he’d be scared away. As he fucking should’ve been.
But he didn’t come out. Not when I stole an empty jug from the back of a department store. Or when I siphoned gasoline out of a car.
Not even when I snuck into my aunt’s house while she was out at Bingo, like she always was on Wednesday nights. Or when I doused my uncle’s bedroom in gasoline and set it on fire.
Grey didn’t come out until the windows were bright with orange flame and inside, we could hear my uncle screaming until he didn’t scream anymore.
He sat with me, slung his arm over my shoulder, and didn’t say a fucking word until the firetrucks and police and ambulances showed up. With all the chaos, they didn’t even notice we were there, tucked away in the dark entry of the abandoned house across the street. It wasn’t until they had the fire almost completely subdued that he stood up and extended his hand.
“Best barbecue I’ve ever been to,” he said. “But I think we should get back before anyone notices we left.”
That was when I knew: he was more than a kid I met at some lame excuse for a group home. He was my brother.
I could still taste the phantom flavor of gasoline on my tongue. Acrid and tangy. I licked my lips.
“Well, Frank,” I said, stretching out my kinks as I stood again, snubbing out my cigarette on the top of his charred skull. “It’s been a pleasure.”
Grey cursed when I stepped into the doorway to leave and almost ran him over. He grimaced, and I wasn’t sure whether it was me or Frank that offended him. Probably both. I was almost as covered in gore as our buddy inside.
It took me a second to register why he was standing awkwardly, his hand clutching his upper arm.
“The hell happened to you?” I asked, my veins flooding with heat. My hand jerking back in case I needed to draw my gun. I peered over his shoulder, looking. Listening.
Grey pushed past me, using one hand to dig around the various tools of my trade. “I thought I heard something,” he said. “Ran into the trees to check it out and sliced myself good.”
“On what?” I asked, scrutinizing the amount of blood soaking his arm. Still trying to squeeze past his fingers. “Are trees growing fucking razorblades?”
“Do you still have that stitch kit in here or not?” he hissed, shooting me a glare. I didn’t miss how his eyes kept darting outside.
Either he was expecting company, or he didn’t want Corvus to see this.
“Rook?” he pressed. “A little fucking help, bro?”
I gave my head a shake, deciding I didn’t exactly care what happened, as long as the idiot didn’t let it happen again. Hopefully, he learned his lesson.
I knocked a still smoking Frank from his chair and brushed off his ashes. “Sit down. I’ll get the kit.”