Prince of Crows

There was a poem my mother would tell me each night right before tucking me into bed. It was a sad poem that always made her beautiful face so sullen. Her pale blue eyes would fill up with such pain that it made my child self wish to bear a piece of her inner suffering. There was never a night she did not whisper this heart-wrenching lullaby to me. I remember her sad eyes looking at the moon—always the moon. What was the most saddening was that she never shed a tear. Her face always looked like her heart wished to show her pain, and yet her body had lost the ability to do so. Like a beautiful statue weeping, but no tears could be seen.

 When I was nine, I asked my mother one night before she told the nightly poem, "Why do you always look sad when reading that poem, mum? Does it hurt you when you read it?" I remember her looking down on me with her gentle smile and saying, "I will tell you one day when you are ready to hear it. Just know it is a song close to my heart. I hope it will bring you just as much relief as it does me. When she was retelling her favorite poem to me that night, I remember looking up at her and thinking, 'She didn't look at the moon this time.'

 My mother died in her sleep that very night. The doctors said she died in her sleep from cardiac arrest. As a child, I didn't know what that meant. I just knew I wanted my mother back.

 I was sent to an orphanage that day since it was just me and my mother. My father had passed away from heart cancer. Neither of my parents had any remaining family. A year later, I was diagnosed with a rare, never before heard of disease. From that day, I went from a primarily average ten-year-old child to merely an experimental project.

 When doctors and scientists got wind of an undiscovered disease, my life soon became unbearable. Every day in the hospital was a symphony of pain and uncertainty for him. From the moment I opened my eyes to the sterile glare of fluorescent lights, I was plunged into a world of needles, probes, and relentless scrutiny. Doctors and scientists, their faces masked in clinical detachment, prodded and poked at my frail body, searching for answers to questions I could barely comprehend.

 The routine was relentless- blood draws at dawn and tests that stretched endlessly. Each new day brought fresh experiments, each one a gamble with my fragile health. I became little more than a specimen, a puzzle to be solved; My humanity was lost amidst the sterile walls of the hospital ward. 

 Yet amidst the pain and the probing, there were fleeting moments of connection- brief glimpses of compassion from nurses who saw past the tubes and wires to the boy beneath. I still remember the day I was introduced to my favorite book series.

November 21, 2008

 In the dimly lit hospital room, amidst the sterile whir of machinery, I lay curled in my bed, my frail form wrapped in the tangle of wires and tubes. The monotony of my existence was broken only by the gentle hum of the nurse making her rounds. Mrs. Racham was a woman of around thirty-five with dark brown curly hair with streaks of gray. Her brown eyes always had a twinkle in them. She reminded me of my mother.

 As she approached my bedside, a small smile played at the corners of her lips, her eyes soft with understanding. It was a welcome sight, even though it did bring me slight pain. Seeing Mrs. Rackam always makes me nostalgic for my dear mother.

 With a gentle touch, Mrs. Racham reached under the cart and brought out four thick books. The covers were slightly worn, the pages dog-eared from countless readings. They were the Twilight Saga, a beloved series that had captured readers' hearts worldwide. It was popular among my age. The internet can't stop talking about it. I heard some of the younger nurses gushing over either an Edward or someone named Jacob.

 "These are for you, Malakai," Mrs. Racham said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that cut through the room's chill. "My daughter loved these books and thought you might enjoy them too."

 My eyes widened in surprise, and a flicker of hope ignited in their depths. I reached out with trembling hands, my fingers tracing the familiar curves of the book covers. It was a small gesture, a simple offering of solace in a world ravaged by pain. My heart warmed at the gesture.

Flashback End

 After that fateful night when Mrs. Rackam bestowed upon me the Twilight Saga, my world shifted in ways I could never have imagined. Within the well-worn pages of those books, I found refuge from the relentless pain of his existence. With each turn of the page, I was transported to a world where blood and love intertwined, where vampires battled against their thirst, and hope triumphed over despair.

 The characters became my companions, their struggles mirroring my own, their victories offering me solace in adversity. My imagination soared in the confines of my hospital room, carrying me far beyond the sterile walls that confined my body. 

The books were a welcome distraction from my life's solitariness. After watching the movies, I discovered the books were far more interactive. 

 Two months after finishing the last film, my life became more interesting. Encouraged by the nurses who were kind to me and emboldened by the newfound sense of purpose the books installed in me, I began to seek out moments of beauty amidst the bleakness of my surroundings. 

 I first encountered the crows during my daily strolls through the hospital grounds. Drawn to their dark beauty and the wild freedom of their flight, I found myself captivated by their presence. With each passing day, I began bringing them offerings—crumbs of food salvaged from my meager meals, tokens of my gratitude for the solace they provided me. Five beautiful crows would visit me as I sat in my wheelchair, pushed by whichever nurse was assigned to me that day. I named them according to their personality. It took me quite a bit of time to learn about them. On the days I could not see them, I researched crows. I decided to name the three boys Erebus, Anubis, and Samael. As for the girls, I named them called Nyx and Hela. 

 And as the weeks turned into months, a bond formed between me and the crows, forged in the crucible of shared suffering. They became my constant companions, their caws a symphony of solidarity in a world that had long since turned its back on me. Together, we found solace in the simple act of existing, each moment a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring power of compassion.

 On my seventeenth birthday, I asked to see my parent's grave. The doctors agreed, knowing I didn't have long to live. My body was disintegrating at an alarming rate. The rotting, the scientist creatively called it, had passed by legs. The doctors claimed once it reached my heart, I would be dead instantly. They gave me no more than a year at most.

 Looking at my mother's gravestone, I cried, or at least I wanted to. It would appear I discovered I could not shed tears, just like my mother back then. The pain was too much. Each night since that day she died, I would whisper that poem she loved so much. Years later, I would like to think I loved it just as much as she did. Touching the cold grave that marked my mother's life below, I whispered her beloved poem to her one last time.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly, there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—

 Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

 Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

 This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—

 Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—

 Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

 Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;—

 'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

 Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

 Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

 With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."

 Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

 Of 'Never—nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

 Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

 She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

 Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"

 Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

 Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

 Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

 Shall be lifted—nevermore!

 Looking at the two gravestones, I said, "Farewell, Mallory Evrina Lockhart, my beloved mother. And it was a pleasure to meet you, Nikolai Lawrence Lockhart, my father, whom I wished to meet. It would appear I will be seeing you both in due time next year." Turning to the nurse assigned to me for this particular occasion, I announced, "Thank you, Ms. Beatrice, for taking the time to bring me here. I am ready to head back now."

 As we headed to the car, we saw ravens resting on a large tree near the car, looking down at us before flying off.