Outcast

I woke up in a cold sweat, skin prickling, ears ringing. The room was pitch black, save for the faint glow of the street light that filtered in past the edges of the window blind. And, though there were only two of us sleeping in the room, it felt as though I was being crowded, the air pressing down on me. I couldn’t get over the feeling that I was being watched – that if I looked over in the far corner of the room, I’d see the looming shadow of someone, no, something standing there. 

I shivered, certainly not from cold, as the late September heat wave was making me wish I’d never moved so far south. In my whole life, I’d never been a leaver – staying far past I should and accepting far less in exchange for everything I’d given. But something inside me knocked, and tugged, and begged me to open up my mind and maybe…

Samantha stirred next to me, pulled me from the mental door that hadn’t stopped cracking open since the Summer Solstice when the bonfire get-together we’d attended had jarred a memory, a feeling. Something I hadn’t entertained in so long, it frightened me.

“You’re awake. Again,” Samantha’s voice cracked with sleep and annoyance. “Did you even try taking that melatonin I gave you?” It had been almost three months since I’d started waking up in the middle of the night, feeling like I was being watched, sometimes waking her by accident.

“No,” I confessed. “They give me nightmares.” I gathered my pillow and slid out of the queen-sized bed, chest clenching when she groaned and turned her back to me.

“Fine, we can talk about it in the morning.” There was no need to tell her it was already morning, her alarm clock would let her know soon enough. I grabbed my phone and headed into the living room, wondering if it was even worth trying to get another forty minutes of sleep or if I should go ahead and get a head start on my morning.

Coffee sounded better than sleep at that moment, so I turned on the light over the stove to keep from waking Samantha again, and then stood against the counter, phone in hand. I should have been writing, I needed to become more organized, motivated. I shouldn’t let failure keep me from continuing to try. That’s exactly what Samantha and I had fought about the night before and many nights before that. Usually it was about me being too picky — this time it was because I refused to reach out and ask for help from my estranged family. I had shut the conversation down as quickly as she’d broached it and she left in a huff, not telling me where she was going.

If she’d pulled a stunt like that anytime in the first year we were together I would have fallen apart, begged her to come back, told her I’d do anything she asked. And perhaps that’s why she was still angry when she got home — she expected me to chase after her like I always did. Once again, there was that insistent thrum trying it’s best to get my attention. The feeling that something was changing and it was time for me to catch up.

I had just finished checking my emails and social messages from people I’d ignored when Samantha came into the living room dressed in her corporate outfit, polished, her makeup strategically done to hide her lack of sleep.

She cleared her throat as she poured herself coffee into a tumbler — something I would have done for her once upon a time. “Your sleeplessness is doing a number on my face,” she said. I couldn’t tell if she’d meant it as a joke or a jibe. I suddenly realized it didn’t really matter anymore.

“Or maybe it’s that you didn’t come home until after two in the morning,” I replied. Samantha turned around, just as surprised as I was that I’d quipped back like that. I swallowed and waited for her to chide me, or to at least explain where she’d been.

Instead, she shakes her head and says, “I’m not sure what’s gotten into you lately, but maybe we need to talk about it when I get — “

“Yes, when you get home. When will that be today? After work or after happy hour with your work friends? You always say you want to talk, but then it never happens.” I inhaled sharply and held it there, shocked that I’d finally said what I’d been thinking for weeks or even months. Samantha only chewed the inside of her cheek as she assessed me, mulled my outburst.

“That’s what happens when you’re the only person working,” she condescends before picking up her work bag and putting her free hand on her hip. “And they’re networking happy hours, Savannah. Maybe you’d know that if you ever left the goddamn apartment.”

Samantha didn’t wait for a reply, and I was thankful she slammed the door loud enough to drown out the sound of my sniffle as tears began to blur my vision.

“What a cunt,” a deep, British voice purred behind me. I let out an embarrassingly pitiful yelp of surprise, my phone flying across the room as I jumped off the couch, ready to run to the front door. Yet, when I turned to find out who’d been hiding in the apartment all this time, I found nothing but a raven, massive for a bird, sitting in the window. A window a didn’t remember opening.

“Samantha’s right, I need to get out of the house more,” I mumble to myself as I go to retrieve my phone, never taking my eyes off the bird as it cocks its head at me.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure you should be taking advice from her,” the bird says snidely before hopping down onto the table. I screamed then, backing away, begging the bird to stay put. He listened, but I had the sense he did so irritatedly.

“Ah, uh, good bird,” I cooed until I’d finally gotten my phone in hand, unsure what I planned to do. “Birds can’t talk,” I told myself. “Unless it’s a…a corvid, right?” My fingers shook as I tried typing the question into the search engine.

“Right,” The bird answered. “Orrrr, unless they’re enchanted. Which I also happen to be,” he announced proudly. I stared at him in disbelief before finally laughing hysterically. Obviously, my sleeplessness had caused me to go insane. I was hallucinating the whole thing, and maybe I’d even hallucinated the argument between me and Samantha — that would explain why I said something so out of character. The birds feathers ruffled, and I giggled a little at the motion because it was so obvious he was taking my laughter personally. Or maybe because I was going crazy from stress and maniacal laughter was the final stage.

“I’m sorry,” I finally said, and then laughed again because I was talking to a bird. “I just…I mean, I’ve never talked to a bird before. Do…do you have a name?”

“It’s Benedict, actually,” he replied in his crisp British accent. “You can laugh all you want to, but —“ He stopped when he saw me purse my lips to keep from laughing some more, and gave what I would assumed was a huff. “Alright, alright, get your laughs out. So funny, isn’t it? A talking bird that’s flown all this way just for you.”

At the last part, I paused my laughter, eying him suspiciously. “Why would a talking bird fly all this way for me? From where? For what?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he replied, pleased, before jumping from the table and gliding the short distance to my coffee table. The air from his wings brushed my face and I fought the urge to panic again about the fact there was this creature in my girlfriend’s apartment.

“You might want to sit down for this,” Benedict started gently. “It’s about your aunt.”

“My what?” The room spun a little, my heart rate spiked. “I have an aunt?” My brows scrunched in disbelief at the raven. I knew my family wasn’t a very forthcoming one, but hiding a whole family member my whole life? Benedict seemed to since I needed a second and sat on the coffee table, quietly observing as I slowly made my way to sit on the edge of the couch, keeping my distance from the bird I still wasn’t positive wasn’t a hallucination.

“I’m sure you’re curious why you knew nothing about her,” he comments, a gentle lead into more information. All I can do is nod my head. “Well, the simple answer is that your Aunt Astrid was…a witch. And your family —“

“Oh, my family would have had no tolerance for a member who was different.” The familiarity of the situation struck deeper than I’d expect after all these years, and I suddenly felt a brief connection with this Aunt Astrid, despite never having met her or knowing anything about her.

Benedict nodded sagely, something I didn’t know a bird could do so convincingly, and said, “So you understand, your Aunt Astrid was an outcast. But, sadly, that’s not what I’m here to tell you.” Brows furrowed, I leaned in despite my hesitance.

“Come on Benedict, you’ve been really chatty since you dropped in, don’t get quiet on me now.”

“Well, you see,” he hedged. “Your Aunt Astrid…is…well…dead.” Even though I feel a heady mix of confusion and disappointment, I’m also really curious.

“D-dead? The aunt I just found out existed is dead and…what am I supposed to do with this information? Why am I finding out from her pet bird?”

“Because,” Benedict replied with perfect diction. “You, Savannah Gráce, are the new owner of Astrid’s Apothecary & Perfume Shop.”

I’ve always been a daydreamer. It was the bane of my parents existence and got me in trouble in school on many occasions. I just knew there was something better out there than the boringness of my parents world or the stuffiness of boarding school. However, sometimes my imagination would get the better of me and I had a hard time figuring out what was real and what I’d invented — until I was chided or questioned or put into therapy at a young age to find out what was going on.

Sitting in Samantha’s living room after the night I’d just had, hearing a Raven named Benedict break the news that my long lost relative was dead and that I was bequeathed her shop suddenly had me questioning whether I’d dipped back into maladaptive daydreaming. I lifted my hand up to my face but didn’t find the tale-tell signs of derealization softening the edges of my skin. Nor did my head feel like a balloon bobbing in space. But, I thought in a panic, what if there are other signs I’ve never experienced before?

“You seem anxious,” Benedict pointed out, his black eye zeroing in on my bouncing knee. I placed a hand on top of it to keep it still.

“Yeah, well, I’m kind of trying to wrap my brain around whatever this morning has been.”

“Understandable, I get the sense that your family has hidden a great many things in an effort to keep up their image. But, you’re aunt…she was a great fixture in her community and I know that she’d love for you to give it a chance.” Benedict spoke softly, soothingly, and I was surprised by how my knee had already slowed its bouncing. Then, a thought struck me much later than it should have.

“How exactly did my aunt die?” I asked the raven. He cocked his head this way and that way, stalling. Before he could answer, my cell phone rang, disrupting our conversation. I looked down, hoping it would be Sam. Instead, it was an area code somewhere in central Virginia. Hesitantly, I pressed the green button and held the phone up to my ear.

“Hello?” There was a pause on the other end but I could hear what I thought was typing before the other person said, “Oh, sorry about that. Is this Savannah Grace?”

“This is Savannah,” Distrust dripped from my voice. I’d had a lot of surprises already this morning and the tone of the woman on the other end didn’t bode well.

“Savannah, hi. I’m Cal — I was…friends…with your Aunt Astrid. I thought you should know that your aunt has regrettably passed away.” Cal’s recital sounded both rehearsed and somber, letting me know she probably was friends with this aunt I knew nothing about but was reading her announcement from a paper. Why did I keep finding out about my estranged aunt in the strangest ways possible?

“Uh, yeah, I already know. Can someone finally tell me how?”