Blue-Black Feathers and a Murder of Crows

Several killings took place in my home town. It was the year I turned fourteen. The only thing the victims, of which there were over twenty, had in common was a carving on their stomach. It was a strange year for me, but I was not afraid.
The first victim, my best friend, was murdered a few days after one of our big fights, on the 15th of February. As a result, the argument was never resolved. This weighed little on my conscious.
Our fight was stupid, and, of all things, over a boy. And the stupidest thing is that it’s not even because we both liked him.
One night, while I was staying at her house, her mom and she left to get something from the store. I volunteered to stay behind and watch her baby sister. I love babies and I have no siblings, so it was really fun to play with the baby.
Well, after about five minutes her older brother came home. I think he is around twenty-one, but he still lives with his parents, coming and going whenever he wants. We said our hellos and I continued to play with the baby. It didn’t take me very long to notice that he was still there staring right at me. A shiver went through me and I was getting kind of scared. I mean, I wasn’t even fourteen at the time so he was a lot older than I was. But I attributed the strange sensations to nerves and turned to smile at him.
“Would you hold her for a second?” I held out the baby. “I have to use the restroom.” He took the baby and I went down the hall.
When I got to the bathroom, I found out I really did have to go. I had just been using it as an excuse to get away from his awful stares. But, as I was already there, I used the bathroom.
When I was done, I washed my hands and splashed cold water on my face. Looking in the mirror, I tried to calm down. I even talked quietly, trying to reassure myself. I did a pretty good job convincing myself that he was harmless, that he hadn’t been looking at me but his baby sister.
When I opened the door, though, I jumped slightly and my heartbeat thundered in my ears. He was standing not even a foot from me, right outside the bathroom. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but he pushed me back and locked the door. His eyes were wild and mine must have shown my fear. He didn’t say a word as I stammered out a few syllables before he pushed me to the floor.
The next few minutes seemed to last forever. I remember the pain as he went inside me, and the harsh sound of his breathing in my ear. My eyes were shut tight, but I couldn’t shut off the feeling in my body. I cried so much I ran out of tears.
After he left I laid there for a few minutes before scrubbing my legs and the floor. Between my legs, my skin was raw from my efforts to rid myself of the dirty feeling. I quickly changed clothing and ran home, all the way across town. The next day at school, when my friend asked me where I went, I told her the truth, not shedding a single tear.
I only started to cry when she called me a liar and said her brother would never do anything like that. I spent that day in the girls’ restroom, hiding in the last stall, somehow knowing that they would know what I had let happen to me; that they would know how dirty I was.

The second victim was found twenty days later on the 7th of March. The third, only 15 days later on the 22nd. The space between the murders decreased in jumps and starts, until there were mere hours between them. By May of the same year; fifteen girls were dead. We were finding up to three girls on the same day. By the end of May, the murders of nineteen different people had been attributed to this killer.

There were very few similarities between the victims. Two of them were black, but lived nowhere near each other, one in Washington State and the other in Pennsylvania and had different genders. The other victims were also all from different states, and a few from differing countries. None were the same age, and nothing could be found that even remotely resembled a pattern. It seemed to be totally random. None of the victims, or more than a couple anyway, had even visited the same places, recently or otherwise. The detectives and everyone else were completely befuddled.
The final victim was killed June 1st, 11:59pm. Her body was found on the roof of a nearby mall, with the mark that identified her as a victim of the serial killer, a big upside-down triangle, carved deep into her skin across her collarbone down to her bellybutton. She had just turned fourteen not even two months previously. Her long hair was cut off in uneven chunks, flung about by the wind. The marks on her body were found to have been carved by her own hand. The note pinned through the skin on her chest identified her as the killer that everyone feared. She was a small girl who seemed perfectly happy until they found her on the roof of the mall.
I had never met her before the day I walked up to her and asked her for her name. Alicia, such a pretty name. She wore a long black skirt and a white tank-top. Her long red hair flowed down her back and her feet were bare. She was very pale in color and so very innocent.
I met her on the seventh of March in front of a clothing store. She was homeless, but not dirty. She said she did not mind living on the streets; that it was just a different view than the one other people had.
We got in the habit of talking everyday, sometimes by the store where I’d met her but most times in the big park on the east side of town. Numerous trees grew throughout the property. We would spend hours in the biggest ones, just talking, sitting on the branches as high as we could climb. No one interrupted up; no one knew we were there.
I learned that she had a baby, somewhere out there in the world. A little girl. She didn’t know where she was, who had her, or even what her name was. The parents who adopted the baby had cut off contact with Alicia; she never even got to hold her little girl.
One day, after about a month, I leaned over and kissed her. She didn’t pull back; she put her hand on the back of my neck and deepened the kiss.
Near the beginning of our tree-climbing adventure we had rigged a hammock-type thing between two thick braches fairly high up in a tree. And, now, I lay her down in there on her back, without ever removing my lips from hers. We lay there for a long time, just kissing. When we stopped, I saw that night had fallen.
I hugged her close to my chest, as I was scared of the dark, and we fell asleep.

The next day I brought up the subject of murder.
“Do you hate people who kill other people?” I asked. She gave me a strange look, like she didn’t know how to answer, and finally said ‘no.’
“Would you hate me if I told you that I kill people?” Her eyes widened, with interest, not fear. She said no but I thought she was lying. I figured that what I said would scare her away and I was sad. Seeing the cloud cross my features she kissed me and I remember that she smiled. I always loved her smile. It was the first day of June, warm but not too hot.
That day we lay in the hammock where it was shady and cool. Her fingers were entwined with mind and her head rested on my shoulder.
“I love you.” She whispered the words, making them sacred. I didn’t have to think hard that day, for I had been mulling over it for as long as I had known her. I gave her hand a squeeze.
“I love you, too.” She began tracing random designs on my bare stomach lightly. I soon realized that the designs were words written rapidly across my skin.
“Why?” I turned toward her, forehead furrowed in confusion, I didn’t understand the question and I had been trying to decipher the words she was writing. She repeated, “Why do you love me?” I didn’t pause to even think.
“Because of the way your eyes light up when you look at the sky. Because of the way you walk, and talk, and…” I looked into her eyes. “I love you because you are perfect. In all your tiny imperfections, you are perfect to me.” I don’t know if that made any sense at all, but it calmed her, and she relaxed against me. I continued looking at her, reaching up to trace her jaw line. Her eyes were closed but she smiled when I touched her face. She caught my hand and kissed my palm. Her eyes opened and she kissed my lips. I roll over so I am lying above her and her skirt falls to her hips. I trace the inside of her thigh.

When we wake, we discover night fell long ago. She says she must go, but when I ask where she just says ‘somewhere.’ I kiss her goodbye and climb down the tree. She climbs down after me and I catch her as she jumps from the next to last branch. I twirl her around and kiss her again.
“Goodbye, my love.” She smiles, and then looks trouble.
“Goodbye,” she whispers, before she turns on her heels, running like she saw Death standing behind me. Only later, when I hear that she is dead, do I realize how true that statement was. I try to follow her, but she is long gone and I soon head for home. Spring means warm day and cold nights.

When I wake in the morning, ‘round ten o’clock, I head to the kitchen for breakfast. Outside the door I hear my parents talking. I don’t know why I stopped, but it was just some compulsion I had. I caught snatches of conversation.
“That poor girl…another one gone……even had the mark…such a pretty girl, too…” I push through the door and the conversation dies.
“What’s the latest news on the killer loose in town?” I ask, like I do every morning. They describe the latest girl, long hair, long skirt, pale skin, and my coffee cup crashes to the floor. “Picture, is there a picture?” My heart hammers in my chest and my body shakes with desperation. ‘Please, not her, not her’ I plead silently. But when they show me a picture, I know instantly it is her. The sound I make is a truly feral sound, just pure pain. Tears stream down my face as I race out of the house. My parents are behind me, calling my name, but I cannot stop.
Sobs rip through my body until I am fighting for each breath, but still I do not stop running. Finally I collapse in the tree hammock, mourning. Each beat of my heart feels like a new wound tearing through me, each breath bringing fire to my veins. When the tears subside, and I am drained, hollow, and even my heart beat seems frail.
When I sit up, the idea I have come up with seems the only option. Out of my pocket I pull a folded piece of notebook paper and a small, dull pencil. Unfolding the paper I am careful not to drop the razors hidden within. These I put in my mouth for safe keeping as I set the paper on my knee and prepare to write.
“Several killing took place in my home town. It was the year I turned fourteen…”

When I finish with my story, I add a few more lines.
“Last night, my lover took her own life to persuade you that she was the killer. I believe that she did this for me out of love, but I wish she hadn’t.
Now that she’s gone, I have nothing left, really. Already my heart aches as though it is encase in glass shards. No, I think even that would be better than the pain I feel now. I take full responsibility for the all twenty deaths, hers included.”
I signed my name at the bottom along with the date.
With that, I let the paper drift to the ground and I took the razors out of my mouth. With one final motion I spilt my blood onto the ground. It splattered my note, but left it legible. With my final breath, I carved ‘I LOVE YOU’ into my stomach.



A little girl, running after a small dog, slipped and fell. Her mother rushed to her side to sooth her tears. When she grabbed her daughter she realized the child was sitting in a pool of blood. She gathered her daughter up and grabbed her cell phone. When the police arrived, they let the woman change her daughter’s clothing and wash the blood off her skin.
A young detective was the first to find the note. He slipped into latex gloves and plucked it off the grass. An older detective, coming up behind him asked what he had found. Looking him straight in the eye he said:
“A suicide/confessionatory note from the girl up in the tree.” Everyone’s eyes turned upward and they caught sight of the corpse in the hammock.
When the body was removed from its perch, the carvings were discovered. Complying with her parents wishes, her body was laid to rest next to the newest grave in the cemetery, that of her lover.
The story was top news all over the world. Two girls read the story in the paper, hand in hand, sitting on a tree branch, legs swinging. They turn to each other and smile. One of them, with long red hair, lays her head on the other’s shoulder.
Had one been looking at the tree that day they would have seen a large murder of crows rise from the branches into the setting sun, red glinting off blue-black feathers.
No one had a camera but all who saw it would later swear that they had seen the killers sign spelled out in red. And, while no one believed them, they themselves had no doubt.