It no longer bothers you—the dull aching of your flesh, the sharpness of your bones. Bones protrude the skin, enveloping your tender self and vital organs like a cage, a protective barrier of stone that has risen from the soft earth beneath.

This cage is not new, it has only grown harder with the test of time, slowly expanding. Protecting.

Protecting what? Protecting your soul?
Is there anything left worth saving?

You hear a bird’s cry in the distance, the shuffle of carnivorous creatures looming around it, licking their lips, baring their teeth. They do not hide in the guise of darkness, no—they stalk in broad daylight, staring through the cracks in the barrier. Your terror is only a byproduct of their patience.

Fear is the only thing that penetrates this cage, making every little thing under your skin crawl.

Yet, you feel at home in this cage. It’s one you built yourself, and you get used to the fear. For the most part.

It becomes a kind of comfort, knowing what’s inside and what remains out. After a while, you think you’ll be okay here.

You’ll survive.

You find solace, knowing the corvids wait for your demise.