A murder of crows was picking at his body. The girl watched; for what else could she do? It was, after all, her responsibility, so the least she could do was pay her respect by watching. A shiver went through her. It could have just as easily been her, lying there. And well, perhaps it should have been, even though it wasn’t. She tried to feel something at this realization, but couldn’t. There was nothing there.
The biggest crow’s red eye gleaned diabolically as he perched on top of the boy’s skull. His beak was equally red as he pecked his way through skull and tissue. His screech terrified not just her, but apparently the other, significantly smaller birds too, as none of them dared come close to the boy’s head. The boy’s eyes were already gone, and the girl watched with detachment as the crow picked at some grey tissue from the eye sockets. At that moment, she detached herself from the fact that this was an actual person lying there. From her responsibility for the fact that he was lying there at all.
The crows were picking at his hands, his fingers already gone. At his legs, leaving deep, almost perfectly round, red gashes. At his stomach, tearing out large strips of tissue. At his chest, where there was one large, gaping hole, where the boy’s heart used to be.
A heart that had beaten against hers earlier that night. Silent tears fell down her face as feeling crept back into her body.
Dit is de eerste versie van het proloog van een kort fantasyverhaal wat ik momenteel aan het schrijven ben.