I’m constantly being harassed by crows. They’re always attacking me; wherever I go, they’re always there. I haven’t done anything to them, why do they treat me like this? Some people tell me I have bad luck. I think it’s actually because crows are assholes.
I’m a weird kid. I grew up on the fringe. Too crazy to be normal: too sane to be considered strange, just weird. The crows know this; they’re smart animals. And they’ve known it for a while. They hold grudges better than humans do. Crows have an ability that most other species don’t; they remember the faces of suspicious or threatening people. I’m not saying I’m either of these things, but try telling them that. They’re just a bunch of stupid crows and don’t know any better. Me? I’m just weird.
When I was a kid, maybe seven years old, I was walking home from school one sunny afternoon, when I stumbled across a dead bird. It was mangled: a picturesque example of road kill. It didn’t even really look like a bird anymore; most of it was probably still stuck to the tire of the car that had flattened it. All that was left was the head. I was a very curious kid, still am, and something about that carcass piqued my interest. For some reason, a reason that escapes me now and maybe was never there to begin with, I decided to take it home. I picked up the dead bird and put it in my backpack.
Now, I don’t particularly enjoy dead things, especially when they’ve been mutilated like this thing had, so I really don’t know why I did it. I assume I was just curious about the anatomy of birds and not some kind of child psychopath, who collects dead animals. But again, I’m weird kid, always have been, and that should be explanation enough for odd behavior. Anyway… My mom found it when I got home, and she promptly grounded me. Damn! I never did something like that again. My mom still brings up this rogue page in my life, never letting me forget how strange I am. But she doesn’t know about the crows; they’ll always be there to make sure I’m carrying around stigma.
The crows were there, watching me on that day. Ever since then, I’ve had to dodge them whenever they’re near. They follow me around, attacking me at every turn. And they squawk at me with their wings raised threateningly, as if to say, “You’re a weird kid! You’re a weird kid!”
And so I yell back: “Shut up crows! I know I’m strange, I’m talking to a bunch of birds right now!”
Despite the way they treat me, I’ve managed to look the other way. Sticks and stones: hakuna matata: the blood’s only bad if I let it be that way, you know what I mean? Lately, I’ve been feeding the crows if I have lunch in the park. Because, they don’t bother me; I kinda like being a little different.