I once heard that the British Royal family rests upon an unkindness of ravens.  They have lived at the Tower of London for centuries.  I have always wondered why a gathering of ravens was called an unkindness, possibly it’s because they are said to hold a curse.  Their death or departure is said to bring about the fall of the monarchy.  I used to think such stories were childish.  However, now I ponder their existence and wonder, in their absence, what my birds would leave behind. What curse they would bestow on me?  If they weren’t there, it would just be empty, and perhaps that’s not so bad.

In the short amount of time I had to get to lunch, I decided to make a stop at the post office.  I needed a stamp, but as I looked at the queue it seemed as if everyone had opted to do the same.  I hesitated at the entry for a moment.  I usually ate alone, but on this particular day I had been asked to join a co-worker at a nearby restaurant.  I thrive myself on being punctual.  In fact, I had worked hard at this my whole life.  I believed that the early bird catches the worm.   I could never convince her of my punctuality if on our first scheduled meeting I were late. I backed away from the doorway.  I could get a postage stamp later.

I arrived at the restaurant with minutes to spare.  June was already there, sitting at an outdoor table next to the footpath. She sat there because it was the only place she could eat and smoke at the same time.  I didn’t smoke myself, but I didn't mind the smell.  June seemed strange to me.  We hadn’t worked together for very long but in the time I had known her we had had a few laughs here and there.  She had been sent in by a temping agency and she only intended to work until she got her passport.  Though I enjoyed her company, I could not imagine living the type of life she carried out.

June was almost childlike with her gestures and expressions, often over dramatising trivial things.  She would always laugh too loudly, eat messily and talk to strangers at moments where it seemed inappropriate.  These are things that would socially cripple me with embarrassment, but not June.  She just carried on as normal, shook it off like nothing had ever happened, flitting to her next big thought.  I envied her freedom to do so, but just as equally I felt sorry for her lack of awareness.  Either way one chose to look at it, we were extremely different.  Who ever said that birds of a feather flock together?

Our lunch had barely arrived when an older man interrupted us.  His clothes were shabby and he looked as though he hadn't showered or shaved for weeks.  He looked at June and asked if she had any change for a sandwich.  She smiled warmly and handed him a two dollar coin.  He looked at me and opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but before he could I told him I didn’t have any change.  He held that look for a moment before saying “Are you happy sir?”.  I was slightly put off by this.  I giggled nervously and glanced at June.  She seemed intrigued so I answered him by shrugging my shoulders.   Then he mumbled, “You have secrets.  May they eat at you like a murder of ravenous crows.” He walked away.  June’s mouth was wide open in shock, though the rest her face seemed amused.  I didn’t think that I deserved such a curse.  I felt extremely uncomfortable by his words and however much I tried to forget about it, an anxious flutter stayed in my stomach.

I realised that I was having one of those days where I could do nothing right.  I was trying so hard just to get through simple little tasks but my every move came out awkward and full of doubt.  I had made my way to the post office where I was attempting again to purchase a stamp for a letter I had written to a friend.  Trying not to draw attention to myself I stood in line looking around and noticed there were still plenty of people about.  Again, I felt the fluttering in my stomach and I just hoped I didn't stuff this up somehow.  When approaching the counter to ask for a stamp, my throat seized up for an awkward cough and out popped three black feathers.  I didn't know what to do after that.  I got out as soon as possible and took the feathers with me.  This is when I realised that there was some truth to curses.  I never did get around to posting that letter.  It’s sitting in one of my desk drawers amongst my other documents.  I think that the time has passed for sending it now, it just wouldn't seem right.

It gets a little crowded in there sometimes and the birds, they get a bit worked up.  They start flapping about, squawking and some of them start pecking at my bones.  I try really hard to remain composed but it’s quite evident that there is something wrong.  I often wonder what my face looks like to people when this is going on and what they are thinking.   I have to divert my attention back to the birds and be sure I calm them down.  It would be most embarrassing to loosen the tightness of my lips and have them all escape.

One time, in circumstances unknown to me, a bluebird found its way into my ribcage. He was a timid little thing.  He never made a noise the whole time he was there.  He just slept.  He hibernated right near my navel for three whole years until one day he just spread his wings and flew away.  Just like that.   I felt kind of sad to see him go like that.  However, I felt proud of him.  As if I had played some important part in his process toward freedom, but I didn't even understand why he was there in the first place. He reminded me of June.

June has written me a few letters over the years.  She had sent them from Portugal, Turkey and the latest one from France.  It amazed me how June had spilled the contents of herself across several pages in words and phrases.  I had always preferred letters as a form of communication.  It allowed the writer to speak in a more honest voice that could ever be spoken in person.  It allowed a certain openness that normal conversation restricts.  For June it showed her softness, which was often overshadowed by her boisterous behaviour.  After the cursing incident the day we had lunch, she would always hum that Beatle’s song about blackbirds to me.  I guess it was her idea of a joke.  I‘m relieved she didn't try to be funny in her letters.

“Blackbirds singing in the dead of night...”  The song mocks me wherever I go.  The tune has long since evaporated and Paul McCartney’s voice has turned to stone.  On it, the lyrics are engraved and they weigh down on me, crushing my skull.   The birds flutter and squirm and their noise echoes through me, all the way through the empty halls of my torso.  Sometimes I am lucky enough to have them sing, and it is absolutely beautiful because in a way it belongs to me.  I could try to take it out into the world, beyond the confines of my ribcage but it exists there and there only.  I never really did understand why the caged bird sings.  I guess they might be waiting for their moment to be free.

There are secrets inside everyone.  Secrets which are like the dream that is stronger in fantasy; the dream we would prefer not to realise.  They belong in the deepest regions of our entrails because outside of that, to anyone else, they would mean nothing.  They are yours, and to let go of them would leave you with a void of darkness that can’t be filled. They are the black birds inside me.  I can’t see them because it’s dark but I know they’re there because I can feel them.  These birds are meat eaters and they liked the taste of my guts.  So they ate and ate until eventually all my insides were gone.  Now all that is left is a hollow ribcage.