I Eat Crows
I killed my first crow when I was nine. I wish I could say it was an accident, but that’d be a lie.I’d been watching it for about a week. It came to our yard around the same time each morning. It knew it was the same crow, because of the white blotch around one of its eyes, almost like some kind of birthmark. It would hop around, peck at the dirt for a bit, and then fly away. I’m not sure why it kept to this routine; it wasn’t like we were leaving food out for it or anything.One day, for whatever reason, I decided to pick up a stone and throw it at it. I missed, only succeeding in scaring the poor thing off. I didn’t expect to see it again, but lo and behold, the next morning as I looked out the kitchen window, there it was, right on schedule. I ran out, got another rock, threw it at it, and off it flew, only to come back the following day. We kept this dance going pretty much throughout the whole of summer. In hindsight, I think I understand why I wanted to hurt it so badly. I was jealous. Unlike it, I couldn’t just fly away whenever I wanted. I was stuck here, confined to the ground. Confined to this hellhole of a house. It was as if it knew that and came back every day just to taunt meInevitably, the stone did find its mark. I was just as surprised as the bird when I finally managed to hit it mid-takeoff, sending it back down to the ground. There it continued to thrash and flap around, but try as it might, it couldn’t get airborne again. One of its wings didn’t seem to be cooperating. After a while, it gave up and just sat there in the middle of the sunburnt grass, its chest puffing and deflating, its head swiveling in all directions.I grabbed the largest of the lawn ornaments scattered throughout the backyard, lifted it with both hands and slowly walked it over to my wounded quarry. The bird stayed put. It definitely saw me coming, but for whatever reason, didn’t even try and move away.I raised the hefty porcelain rabbit halfway over my head and, using every ounce of force my skinny little arms could generate, brought its full weight back down on the helpless creature. Over and over. There was so much blood. I could feel its warmth on my hands and face as it sprayed after every impact. Only once I was done pulverizing the crow into a glistening mass of broken bones and feathers did I realize that it didn’t make me feel any better. I was still just as angry, just as sad, only now there was a layer of guilt on top of it all.Suddenly, I heard my mom call me from inside the house, and my whole body froze. She shouted for me to go upstairs and get my stuff ready, since dad was coming to pick me up in an hour. I didn’t even look back; I just responded with an uneven “…O-okay!”Guilt turned into panic. In hindsight, I could’ve just put the ornament back where I found it, maybe wiped off the blood, and nobody would’ve been the wiser. My mom hardly ever went out into the backyard anymore, and even if she did, she probably would’ve assumed that a stray cat was responsible for the mess. But in my nine-year-old brain, that wasn’t enough. My mind was cycling through progressively more hopeless scenarios. If mom found out, she’d tell dad, and what if he stopped coming over? What if the neighbor’s kids saw it and blabbed to everyone at school? They’d think I was an even bigger weirdo than they already did.The lump in my throat grew larger. My eyes fell back down to the bird, or what remained of it. Conflicting emotions wriggled like worms in my gut. Then, an unspeakable thought emerged:I could… eat itThe impulse was primal, almost instinctive, stemming from the same raw envy that led me to this gruesome act in the first place. But, in a twisted way, it did make sense. I mean, no one batted an eye when grandad used to take me fishing. Even though we caught and killed the fish, it was all good because we ate them afterward, right? Killing isn’t bad when it’s done for food; animals do it all the time and we don’t judge them for it. I reached out, fingers trembling, and turned the limp body over to reveal its sleek, ebony feathers matted in crimson. There was an almost metallic scent emanating from it as I picked it off the ground. I held my breath and bit into the still-warm flesh. Its sinewy textures resisted my teeth as blood gushed inside my mouth. The taste was foreign, tangy. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant—it just was.Strips of stringy tissue clung stubbornly to the carcass. I had to chew through each one individually. Forcing the first piece down was tough. It slid down my throat like a thick, sluggish rope. With no choice but to continue, I tore off another piece, ligaments stretching, protesting as I yanked it away. Each chew echoed in my ears, a sickening squelch against the backdrop of chirping insects and rustling leaves—as if nature itself were holding its breath in disbelief. And it wasn’t the only one.“Jacob! What the hell are you doing!?”I dropped my kill and snapped back to see my parents standing at the edge of the yard. Their faces were a mask of disbelief and revulsion as I stared at them, my mouth full of raw meat and feathers. A trail of hot blood dripped down my chin. That’s how it started.The next time I ate a crow, I was sixteen. I spotted it at a park and immediately knew it was the one. Its feathers were a deep, rich black, like charcoal, and its beak had an unusual shape, curving subtly inward at the tip. Whether as a result of some old injury or that’s just how it grew, I’m no bird expert, so I can’t really say. All I knew was that it made my mouth water just looking at it.This time, my hunting method was a tad more refined. I lured the creature to the ground with some food, and while it was busy snacking, I ambushed it with the rim of my tennis racket. It took several hits to fully incapacitate it, and then I ended its suffering with a quick stomp to the head. I didn’t want it to struggle; that was never the point. I’m not some sicko sadist. I just needed it dead. If I had a more painless and effective way to do it, I would’ve gone for that.I looked around and, ensuring I had no audience, knelt beside the lifeless bird. The smell was unappetizing but also intoxicating—blood and earth—each whiff igniting something within me. I don’t know what it was, but it felt right. As I sank my teeth into the stringy, warm flesh, the familiar metallic tang spilled across my tongue. The initial resistance of sinew gave way, and my incisors severed through muscle, stretching and snapping like a taut rubber band. I clamped down harder. My teeth started to ache as they hit bone. I tried to bite off its head, but it was both way too hard and way too messy, so I stuck to chewing through the soft middle part. Probably the worst part of the whole experience was the bits of intestines that kept getting stuck between my molars. When I was finished, I buried what was left and went home like nothing ever happened.Indulging my eccentric compulsion became a lot easier once I was old enough to legally purchase a firearm. I honestly don’t know how I haven’t gotten sick yet. I’ve tried cooking the meat, but it just isn’t the same. I know what I’m doing can’t be healthy, but then again, we all have our vices. Some people smoke, others rely on alcohol to dull the pain of daily existence—I just happen to enjoy munching on raw crows from time to time. In the grand scheme of self-destructive habits, I’d say mine is pretty manageable.Other than that one thing, I’ve had a pretty normal life up until recently. I graduated, went to college, got a job, a wife, and a mortgage. We were even talking about trying for a kid once we’re a bit more financially stable. She obviously had no clue about my quirky little habits. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been toying with the idea of telling her, but I guess it’s too late now.Yesterday, the boss let us off earlier than usual. Most of my coworkers headed out for drinks, but I was really looking forward to going home and surprising the wife; maybe take her out on a nice long drive across town like we used to do. But when I pulled up in our driveway, I immediately sensed something was wrong.All the lights were off. The front door was hanging open, swaying in the cold, December wind. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the lock was broken. Heart racing, I rushed inside. The darkness welcomed me back with indifference. I called out for my wife. The echo of her name hung in the still air, but only silence answered.  My eyes darted around, searching for any signs of life, any movement whatsoever. That’s when I heard it—a grotesque cacophony of caws and wet gurgles. It led me deeper into the bowels of the house, where the light from a broken window spilled onto the floor. The dreadful scene it illuminated shattered my entire world. There, sprawled across our kitchen, among the jagged beams of steel and fragmented glass, was Rachel. Her head hung at an awkward angle, her lifeless eyes wide and glassy as they bored into me. Hunched over her was something I’m having a hard time describing even now.Hairless and pink, its leathery skin extends over a body that’s disturbingly humanoid yet incorrect. It has a torso, shoulders, and legs that seem only partially formed, reminiscent of an oversized, premature fetus. Instead of arms, it has a pair of stunted wings lacking feathers, and its skull is shaped like that of a crow, though disproportionately large for its scrawny frame. I just stood there, helpless and watching as it probed Rachel’s mangled remains with its beak. A part of me wanted to lash out at the thing; grab the nearest chair and beat it to a bloody pulp. But at the same time, I couldn’t fully bring myself to hate it for what it had done. It’s okay if you eat it after, right? The circle of life and all that. I may be a freak, perhaps not entirely right in the head, but I’ll be damned if I add hypocrite onto that. It’s still there in the kitchen, picking at my wife’s dead body. I’m waiting for it to finish. I have my 9mm on my lap and a hatchet ready. I’ll update you guys on how it tastes. Credit: Morning Owl Reddit Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.