Not feeling well, so I’m munching on some corn tortilla chips to help settle me physically. I hear a snort of derisive laughter and look up to see the outline of a raven perched on my table’s hutch.
I return its silent non-greeting with my favorite verbal one. “Yea, fuck you, too.” ~crunch crunch~
“You’re not surprised to see me?”
“Considering the week I’ve had, you have some fucking nerve to manifest in a way I can touch and defeather.” ~a chip is eaten in a threatening display~
“You wouldn’t eat me! You hold ravens sacred!”
“Bull-fucking-shit, I do. There are certain ravens that I won’t dare even fart in their general vicinity, but you? I’ll grind your flesh with beans and make dip to go with my chips.” ~crunching continues ominously~
The raven laughed in an attempt to blow off my threat, but moved a little further away just the same. “Speaking of chips… potato?”
“Corn, asshole.” ~crunching pauses~ “What’s your fucking point.”
“So let me get this straight. You’re in the week leading up to [certain days regarding the dead], you’re feeling less human than usual, and you’re eating ground maize to recover your physical strength.”
I look at the bag with fresh eyes. It brightly announces the contents are gluten free and have no preservatives. A red corncob happily bursts from a white background. “AUTHENTIC MEXICAN TORTILLA CHIPS” in red text drapes over the red bell of the brand. I realize this particular hue of red is the same as arterial blood exposed to air. ~crunching stops~
“I’m not in that fandom. I can’t be. That one traces bloodlines and cultural dominances even tighter than Vodun. I’m at least four generations away to even claim a toehold.”
The raven laughs as the significance of what I’m looking at sinks in. “Yea, sure. Keep telling yourself that. When [she] rings that bell, you’re still going to answer, because that is what you are. Just like when [Rummer John] pours that shot [that summons you], you’re there to drink it before he’s even put the bottle down. I could spend all day reminding you just what kind of transgressor you are. But you have enough on your hands as it is, what with cracked wells and all.”
I close the bag and put it aside. The raven starts laughing again. I have no words to refute it with so I just silently stare at my hands.
“By the way… [Snake] says hello.”
I lunge out the chair with full intention of having roast spectral raven for dinner tonight. It leaps faster than I can move and removes itself from my sight, cawing with full mockery the entire time. I sat back down in an empty room with a full stomach betraying me with satisfaction.
It wasn’t the reference to Snake that made me rage, it was the particular name the bird used to refer to him. It reminded me of a promise I have left unfinished, and other aspects of myself that I still do not want to face.
If the Old Man shows his face today, I won’t be surprised. The near-past and the distant-past are converging on my ass head. If I hear rattling, I won’t run.