The Cat and the Raven

There stood an old crickety house in an old crickety wood, where the windows dusted over and the doors squeaked louder than the floors of a home in which the father held his belt too tight. As any crickety house in any crickety wood, the air was still. Abandoned by expectations of the common folk, forgotten by time’s manipulation of the poor mind.

As silent as time came to be, there was still life in this old crickety house in the old crickety wood. Starved, but not dead, a black cat sat curled in himself by one of the many blurry windows. Skinny with crooked whiskers he waited, but not for too long. With his fine nose he could detect the scent of death, an old friend. She was near, and while the cat was indifferent of her arrival, he would accept her nonetheless. Inevitability is unforgiving, anyway.

And so she came, clad in black feathers and a beak so broken and chipped her expression was that of a devilish smirk without intention. Her wings were small and frail, but she still held what little fire she had left in her. Through one open dirty window from the old crickety house, the raven landed herself next to the cat. They shared a glance in silence before the raven spoke up.

“It’s a terrible day,” she said. “I’ve met so many different ones today. It’s quite tiring, you know. This day has been so quiet.”

The cat, with his tired yellow eyes, blinked slowly. “What a terrible day it is, then.”

The raven prodded her beak at the cat’s bone shoulders. She didn’t stop there. With her skinny legs and claws she climbed up on the cat’s head, making herself comfortable. The cat did not object; however, his ears flattened horizontally. She barely weighed a thing, but yet again, neither did he.

“I took care of all of my problems,” the cat said, but his tone went unfinished. “I did all of the right things I had to do, you see. I went to others and did what they told me. It was all very fundamental. Back to the basics, or something. I was no longer...sad.”

“That is a good thing, is it not? Isn’t that the goal you were trying to reach? Did you cross your finish line?” The raven cocked her head and pecked at a stray hair on the cat’s head. He didn’t seem to notice.

“I don’t understand it, Raven. I thought since I was no longer sad I could finally be happy. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to play out? Do the work and then you’ll become happy? I don’t know why I feel so numb.”

“No, no that’s not how it works.”

“How does it work, then?”

The raven nestled down on top of the cat’s head. His fur was so thin and soft, contrary to the raven’s cold and hard claws. “If you cannot understand, then I’m afraid you never truly escaped your sadness. It’s the first step, after all.”

He went quiet. “Oh. So I see.”

“Oh. So you see. Are you ready, my friend?”

“No, but I will go. I’m sorry I couldn’t be happy.”

The raven’s beady eyes stared down into the cat’s. “I’m sorry you couldn’t be happy.”

And so in the old crickety house in the old crickety wood, a small raven flew out of a dirty window, leaving the house without a living soul to be seen. The air she flew through felt no different as it had when she was first arriving, but at least it wasn’t sad.