winchesterluck
It has been three years, four months, twenty-six days, nine hours, twelve minutes and seventeen seconds since I last saw you. It is too long, and I am sorry. I am sorry that now the wooden box that holds your body is now covered with moss, and I am sorry that you are decomposing in it. I never meant this to happen, I swear. I just lost track of time, just forgot to check on you. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. It has been too long.
It was dark. Not the kind you find at three in the morning when you're trying to wake up for the graveyard shift that you signed up for, but the kind that you find right before the sun rises. You could still see the outline of a telephone pole and, farther in the distance, a small abandoned shack. The shack was old, impossibly old, and had nearly caved in. In the distance, a crow flies toward the shack, circles it, and then changes it's mind. It alights instead on the telephone pole, wings extended and opened wide. You hear a loud buzz coming from the pole, and then the crow falls to the ground dead, having completed the circuit between the wires. The sun rises. The house falls down. A car rolls over the carcass of the burned crow. no-one notices.