write-it-motherfuckers:

Your father had always hated crows. He hated a lot of things actually, and he was never very subtle about it. You would watch him storm out there sometimes and pelt rocks at them, or try to run them over when he would come up the street. He always enjoyed starting fights over petty things, and hurting animals was something he adored the most.

You loved the crows, though you had to do so from afar for years, not wanting to anger your father. One day though, as a young child, you saw that one of the crows had gotten caught in one of the traps that your father had set out. Luckily he had yet to see, and so you quietly crept out, knowing that he would kill it should he have the chance. 

You can remember the distrustful way it looked at you as you padded over, yet strangely enough it stayed silent as you worked. Once you released it, it stared at you for a moment, before flying away. It had made your day back then, even if you did get in trouble for being outside barefoot.

From that day on, you would do little things for the crows. Some stolen scraps, purposely sabotaged traps, small twigs and such for nests, anything you could do to apologise to the crows for your fathers behaviour. To your surprise, the murder of crows seemed to remember all of your kind deeds.

Over time, you began to find little trinkets and shiny things, dropped on your window sill of a morning. You adored every single one, no matter how strange or simple, and took to saving them away in a little wooden box under your bed. 

As you grew older, and your father left you alone more often, the crows would come and sit on your window sill, listening as you rambled about anything and nothing at all, or letting out soft caws in time with your singing. Strangely enough, whenever you mentioned liking a certain thing, or your need to get something, you would find the gifts shifting to centre around the topic of your discussions. Though you chose to never question it, simply thanking them as you always did. 

Unfortunately, as time went on, your father became a more and more hateful man, leading to many fights over inane things. There were many a time when you found yourself running to your room to hide away from the aggression, grateful for the locks on the door. 

One morning, after a particularly large blow up, you found yourself curled up on your bed, crying, and listening to the sound of your fathers truck screeching angrily down the street. You ignored the faint tapping at the window, not up to facing your feathered friends, but

seeing you curled up as you were, they refused to be deterred.

You didn’t hear the lock slowly click open, nor the window being lifted up, but you did feel as the bed dipped, and a large clawed hand gently ran through your hair. You were quick to look up in shock, sight bleary from your tears, and heart pounding with a sudden burst of adrenaline.

Even with your vision blurred, there was no mistaking the large black feathered wings that spread from behind the stranger. You watched as they slowly folded down against their back before vanishing in a wisp of dark smoke as the stranger rolled their shoulders. Gently they continued to run their clawed fingers through your hair, waiting for you to speak.