Young Writers Society

Author's Note: This story was written for GriffinClaw's contest "Picture Prompts". The picture I was given, which was the inspiration for this story is at the bottom of the page.

On the hottest day of the year, there were two murders in the hills near my town.

One was of crows.

The other was of a girl.

There was also a first kiss, a last hurrah, two true loves and boy driven mad.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’d hate to ruin the ending, before you knew how it began. Let me tell you what happened.

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I suppose that I should begin by introducing myself. The short version of it is this: I’m Bertie, or Alberta, if you’re my mother, I’m sixteen, addicted to dyeing my hair and, due to an incident in my childhood which I refuse to discuss, I’m not such a fan of birds. I live in Casterwick, a little town hours from anywhere substantial and surrounded by hills that makes me understand what they were on about in A Sound of Music. I like to think that I’m pretty normal, and consider myself a sensible, practical kind of person.

For almost a year now, I’ve lived next door to a boy named Quentin. If you ever asked anyone at school about Quentin, they’d probably tell you about his two true loves: birds and photography. If he can combine the two, he’s on top of the moon. He’s strange and sweet, and often says the oddest things. We became close not long after he and his family moved to Casterwick, and unfortunately for me, this meant that I got dragged along on a number of bird watching expeditions. I suppose that I could have refused, but it was always worth it to see the look on Quentin’s face as he took photos of the birds. Pure, unconstrained happiness. That’s what I saw, and I suppose I always went along because I hoped that it would rub off on me. Maybe it did, in part, because despite being in sheer terror, I loved our bird watching trips.

Yes, loved. Past tense. You’ll see why.

I tried to talk Quentin out of going, that last time. This was mostly because of the weather. All week, we’d been hearing the forecasts – over forty degrees, dry as a bone, no cloud cover and strong winds. Bushfire weather. In town, we weren’t in too much danger from any fires, but the hills where Quentin liked to go were covered in dense bushland and long grass, all of which had been dried by drought. It wasn’t just dangerous; it was a catastrophe waiting to happen. All of the vegetation would be fuel for the flames, and having grown up in the area, I was all too familiar with the horror stories about people getting trapped. It would be suicidal to go anywhere near the hills. But Quentin couldn’t be dissuaded.

“But Bertie, the crows might never come back!” he exclaimed, when I told him about how dangerous it would be, “They never appear around here, and there are hundreds of them.”

“So?” I asked, “What good’s that going to be when you get roasted?”

“Come on, school starts next week,” Quentin reminded me, not that I had forgotten, “It’s our last chance to do something.”

“What, like a last hurrah before we get dredged up in homework again?”

“Exactly.”

“The answer’s still no.” I frowned. “It isn’t worth risking it.”

Quentin huffed. By this point, our argument had been going on for a while. He seemed so hung up on going, more so than I had ever seen him. Eventually, he said, “Fine, if it makes you happy, we’ll just go in the morning. Two hours, tops.”

“We leave there by ten at the latest.” I was glad that he was willing to compromise, but still cautious. At this point, I figured that it wouldn’t be too dangerous in the morning, and I was worried about Quentin going by himself if I refused to go.

“Deal,” he sighed.

It’s ironic now, that I didn’t want to go because of bushfires. I thought I knew what to expect, but I had no idea what the true cost would be.

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I guess that takes care of the murder of crows. The other one, I’m getting to. It’s a pretty harsh coincidence that we set out to find one type of murder only to be subject to another. I always meant to ask Quentin why they call a group of crows a murder. Maybe there isn’t a reason. Maybe it’s all just dumb luck.

The trip up to Quentin’s bird watching spot was pretty uneventful. As usual, we took the bus and then walked the rest of the way. It took a little longer than it normally would because even though it was early, it was already stinking hot. We talked the whole way; even though he can be painfully shy and awkward in a crowd, Quentin’s always been one of those people that I never run out of things to talk about with. I’ve kind of forgotten exactly what we spoke about on the walk, actually. School, friends, what we’d do if we won a million dollars, all that kind of thing, I think. Nothing important.

As Quentin snapped photos and admired his crows, I tried not to stress about the weather. Quentin grew up in the middle of suburbia, so he never had to develop the paranoia about fires like I did. Seeing reports of fires on the telly doesn’t compare to looking up and not be able to see the sky because it’s completely obscured by smoke. As I tried to distract myself, I couldn’t help but admit that the sheer number of crows was impressive. Not worth risking a fiery death for, but still.

I sat down on a rock, and looked out over Casterwick. From up here, the town looked like a sea of green-brown backyards and glinting tin rooves. I sighed. God, it’s hot, I remember thinking. The heat felt like a physical force pressing up against me, even in the shade. I stood up again, and wandered over to Quentin, trying to distract myself from the heat. He didn’t seem to be having the same problems, because he didn’t even glance at me as I stood next to him. The focused mask that I saw on his face everyday had slipped away, to be replaced by a relaxed, almost goofy grin. Sometimes I wondered why Quentin loved the birds so much. I used to think that it was because he felt like they were able to understood him better than people could. Now, after what he did, I think it’s a little more complex than that.

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The next few moments feel as though they are etched onto my memory in a series of snapshots. The first is the branches of the trees rising as they are relieved of weight. The second is of a sky full of glossy black bodies blotting out the sun, accompanied by the sound of a hundred flapping wings. Next comes a single black feather, which falls daintily past me, its slow progress a stark contrast to the chaos above, followed by an empty sky and silence.

The last image in my mind is of Quentin, doubled over, hands covering his ears. I rushed over to him, trying to calm my own breathing. Alfred Hitchcock was onto something when he made The Birds because I had been left shaky by the sudden departure of the crows. Even after coming out here so many times with Quentin, my fear still hadn’t vanished.

I was surprised to see Quentin so affected though. He was muttering to himself, his words unintelligible.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Don’t,” he murmured, “It’s too loud. Leave me alone.”

“Quentin?” Needless to say, I was confused. I placed a hand on his shoulder, which he shrugged of violently.

“Back off!” he yelled, and shoved me. I fell to the ground, and looked up at him in horror. This was such a contrast to the quiet, mild boy I had been living next to for the past year, and I didn’t know how to process the change. It had come from nowhere, and I was terrified. It was such a different feeling to how the crows made me feel; this was true, proper fear. “Stay away!”

“What- Why…?” I had no idea what to say.

Quentin blanched. “Not you. Not now. I can’t…” he said sadly. “I thought it would be better here, Bertie. I thought I would be okay.”

He looked at me, the pain visible in the furrow of his brow and the small creases at the side of his mouth. “Tell me.” I stood up again, and met his eye. “What would be better?”

“It was always too loud,” he said, flinching at the eye contact. “I could always hear them… they were so noisy, and I couldn’t stop it. I thought, maybe it would be better here, quieter. But it’s started again. I hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“You.” There was no emotion in his voice. I shuddered, and tried to look for some trace of the old Quentin in the person in front of me. It was impossible, I thought, that someone could change so much without any warning.

Although, mind you, looking back, I guess there were some signs of this. Quentin’s awkward behaviour in crowds, his shyness, his trips out into the hills, they all seem tied to how he was acting. Part of me thinks that I should have noticed that he wasn’t just timid. I was his closest friend – I should have been able to tell.

“It’s too loud.” He shook his head and leaned against one of the trees, hugging the trunk. “Make it stop, Bertie. It’s too damn loud.

“Please, Quentin.” I didn’t want to leave him, but every single instinct I had was screaming at me to run.

“I don’t want to hear it anymore! I want it to go away.” He clung to the branch tighter. “Why did it have to be you? It’s all I can hear. I can’t hear anything else.”

Suddenly, Quentin launched himself away from the tree with a cry. Within moments, he was standing centimetres from me, and I felt an intense pain just below my ribcage.

And to think I had been worried about bushfires.

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As I looked into Quentin’s eyes, I thought I saw something change in them. The desperate glint vanished, and was replaced by a mournful softness. “Oh no,” he sobbed, choking out the syllables, “What have I done?”

I tried to speak, but found that I couldn’t. The pain in my stomach was excruciating, and it seemed to radiate throughout my body. I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t stand up anymore. My legs felt wobbly and they buckled beneath me. Looking down, I could see the handle protruding from my torso. It just seemed to out of place, like a movie come to life. Blood stained my t-shirt, and I could tell it wasn’t a clean wound by the crimson flesh surrounding the knife.

I wanted to ask where you get a knife, but all I managed to choke out was, “Quentin.”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, “Oh my God, what have I done, Bertie?”

He pulled me close, and held me with the same fervour that he’d clutched the tree with only moments earlier. Keeping my eyes open was starting to become tricky, but I forced myself to stare at Quentin and ask, “Why?”

“It was too loud,” he replied, “It’s always too loud. But I never thought it’d be you.”

I blinked, my vision growing blurry, and I clutched at Quentin with all my strength. I tried to speak, but couldn’t. I felt a tear track down my face. Even breathing was so very, very difficult.

“You’re quiet now,” he said, “I can’t hear anything.”

I couldn’t fight the dullness that was spreading through my mind, and all I could focus on was the fiery pain in my stomach. I had no clue how much time had passed. As my eyes fluttered and closed, I felt a soft pressure on my lips.

The last thing I felt, before I died, was Quentin’s kiss.

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After my heart stopped beating, the crows returned to the hills. They guarded my body until it was found. These birds, so beloved by my killer, stood by me like sentinels, an army of dark guardians.

Two murders, side by side.

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This is the image I was given: