Three crows and suffering

A short story by Talal Nayer

As usual, the monotonous melody began. The wind, heading north, stole the last fig leaves behind which the moon had been hiding, now standing bare in the middle of the sky. Along the sides of the road, the stars gleamed mischievously as the clouds packed up for a journey into the depths of the unknown.

The moon was unfazed by the stars’ gazes, too busy with something else. Its eyes followed the trembling hands through the window of Ward Nine, where a patient lay on an old, rusted bed. This abandoned wing of the hospital is where the sun leans as it retreats daily. The oppressive silence covered the cracked walls, a silence like death, broken only by the dry, intermittent coughs, and the fever-induced hallucinations that scribbled their nonsensical words onto the lips of the ill.

Those withered hands played a dull tune, the same one the moon had grown used to hearing every night. And as night deepened, the moon gave in to sleep, resting on the chest of a passing cloud, leaving the earth to its fate.

Above the broken fan, three crows sat. They ignored the electric wires lazily hanging from the ceiling, scarred by pox. As the clock ticked past midnight, the sweating body began to convulse violently on the bed, which creaked and groaned all night from its pain. Then, at exactly two in the morning, the monotonous melody stopped. Silence reigned over the room, leaving the crows to sing alone.

The silence didn’t last long. Soon, the melody shifted to a frantic, crazed rhythm. At that moment, the ghosts that haunted the green bed awoke and began to dance in a frenzy around the body, shaking violently as if it were performing a final symphony of demise.

The hollow black eyes that had left their sockets devoured the room. The walls of the arteries, too narrow for the ghosts to enter the body, pressed tight. The tortured soul, desperate for escape, screamed, but no one responded. Everyone was too occupied with the scene. The thin nurse held a syringe in her hand, searching for a place to inject it into the defeated body, while the obese doctor watched from behind his thick lenses as if observing a familiar play.

The three crows, frozen in surprise for a moment, resumed their circling in the grey room, their eyes gleaming in the dim light, anticipating what might happen next. But the show had ended again. Silence settled once more, and the body on the bed surrendered to its fate.

Outside, the moon sat behind the dead trees, irritated by the show's end. The elderly women still stared out through the crumbling window, searching for something beyond the horizon. The gentle winds carried the news of the end to the men lying on their worn-out beds. The three crows perched on the broken wooden windowsill, waiting for the next show to begin. As usual.