That's how I end up laying there, groping blindly for the stupid little thing. My fingers touch something just out of reach, and as I stretch with every muscle I have, I only manage to knock it further under my bed.
Frustration courses through me as I stand, my left knee popping from the old football injury I sustained freshman year. The cold’s got my joints stiff, and my fingers are numb, too. I’msonot looking forward to the long winter.
When I reach for my phone from the other side, success comes much faster. I get a grip on it with two fingers and drag it out from against the floorboards, noting the smear of something wet as I do. It's not much; I'd probably have ignored it if my fingersdidn't come away wet when I grip my phone just as the snoozed alarm begins to scream again.
"Easton!" My father yells, moments before his fist pounds against my door. "Quit snoozing that damn alarm and get your ass moving!"
"I'm up!" I assure him, which seems to be enough. I hear his footsteps recede, and I wait an extra second before I look down at my hand.
I nearly drop the damn phone again when I see the sticky red smear across my palm.
Fucking blood.
I blink, looking for the source of it. I expect to find a rogue piece of glass beneath my bed or maybe the pocketknife I lost a few months back, but there's no cut on my hand, no pain.
I'm not bleeding... so what is?
It's too dark to see anything, and when I turn the flashlight of my phone on, all it illuminates is the dust mites and cobwebs beneath my bed. But still, the blood had to come from somewhere.
I abandon my flashlight and end up on my stomach again, feeling around for anything that doesn't belong beneath my bed. I gather a stiff gym sock I forgot I jacked off in, one of Sophie's tiny pet toys, and a handful of dust. And then, finally, I feel something round beneath my palm.
As I roll it out into the open, I imagine a tennis ball or one of the ones I used in physical therapy last year.
I sure as fuck don't expect the little round thing to be a fuckinghead.
It's a crow's head; the beak's been broken off, but it's still covered in small black feathers. Glassy black eyes almost seem to stare into my soul as I stare atitin the palm of my hand, shock morphing slowly into horror.
My scream is cut short when I stifle it, wiping my hand on my boxers in an attempt to get the blood off of me. It's cold, but not yet coagulated, like the bird died recently.
It's fucking disgusting.
The crow must have flown into the window early this morning. Clearly the window won that match— it's not even shattered. It must be what caused the latch to pop, though.
Except, if that's what happened, where the fuck is the rest of the crow?
A quick glance around my room reveals nothing more… nothing out of place, no other heads, no body.
I grab the sock, ignoring the subtle crunch as I use it to wrap around the crow's head and fast walk to the bathroom. I'll deal with whatever the fuck this is after I've warmed up and brought my room back to an acceptable temperature. As it is, I feel like my toes may fall off from frost bite.
No way the corn fields didn't ice last night.
It's the thought of the corn field that brings me back to last night.
Sighing, I rake my hand through my hair.
We definitely took things too far. It wasn't supposed to go that way. Sure, I wanted her; it's why I brought cider for her, why I spiked it. And I expected Jackson would take his fill once I was done— he always does— but I hadn't planned oneveryonegetting in on it. But the minute she passed out, Toby warned me that this was rape, that he'd tell if I went through with it, and then the only thing I could do was let him have his fun, too. I had to let all of them have their fun.
And itwasfun.
My cock is already hard when I slip my boxers away from my thighs, remembering the way she whimpered my name.
Kroweeeee.
I start the shower, giving it a moment to warm up before I step in, and wrap my hand around my cock, teasing my length to the memory of her tight little pussy squeezing me so hard I saw fucking stars.
The steam heats the small bathroom quickly, curling out from around the shower glass and fogging the mirror, obscuring my reflection.
I let my eyes close, focusing on the memories we made last night. I already know they're going to live in my head rent-free for the rest of my life; I don't think anything could top it. And I don't have to try, because just the memory gets me there quickly, imagining the way she looked when we left her... a pretty, broken scarecrow.
