Shades of Darkness by A. R. Kahler

me that if you ever get that stressed, you’ll talk to someone, okay?” Her words were quiet and serious and somehow incredibly tender. “Even if it’s not me. I don’t want to lose you.”
    Walls shifted inside of me. A crack in the barriers I’d built up over the last two years.
    Back in the bathroom, everything orange and white and red and black, colors seeping into shadow, fluids draining into air. Pain fading into nothing. Ravens shifting from shadows . . .
    Elisa’s grip tightened, and our dorm room came into focus. Not without consequence—there were tears in the corners of my eyes and a shake building inside of me I couldn’t force down.
    â€œPlease,” she said. “Promise me?”
    I tried to still my jaw and keep my words from trembling. I didn’t trust myself. I could only nod and hope that she thought I was emotional because of Mandy. She pulled me in for another hug. The fissure in my composure cracked deeper. I squeezed her tight and carefully rewrapped the wounds that scratched their way to light. Now was not the time. Now was definitely not the time.
    This moment was about Mandy.
    Not me.
    I opened my eyes and looked over Elisa’s shoulder. There, on the windowsill, silhouetted in lamplight, was a crow. He cocked his head when my eyes met his. Then, before I could blink, he flapped and disappeared in a fluff of snow.
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    A few hours and one terrible movie later, Elisa curled under her covers and fell asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. For that, I was a little jealous. I had a feeling tonight wouldn’t be a night of restful sleep.
    It was nearly ten. Supposedly lights-out, but no one was coming around to enforce it.
    I turned from Elisa’s bed and stared out our window, both hoping and dreading to see the crow again. The woods beyond were dark, lit only by a single streetlamp a few yards away. The light wavered in the snow, glittering against branches and falling like confetti in some silent celebration. I couldn’t begin to count how many nights I’d sat here for hours after lights-out, watching the trees sway and the darkness change shape.
    And then, as expected, a shadow flew across the window. I followed its arc to where it alighted in a nearby fir. I couldn’t see it, swathed in shades of darkness, but I knew what it was. A raven. Sitting on the branches of a fir tree. Watching me as I tried to find it.
    I felt like I should say something, some prayer for Mandy’s peaceful transition. But as I watched the shadows shift, I knew the wish was unnecessary. Mandy was gone. Prayers for the dead were never really meant for the dead—they were meant for the ones left behind.
    I was used to being left behind. I didn’t need any more praying in that department.
    Is this why you’ve been following me? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t want the answer; Munin didn’t show up for something this simple. He was an omen reserved for more . . . apocalyptic . . . events. I’d learned that one firsthand, and two days too late. So what are you trying to tell me?
    The raven said nothing. Just like last time.
    Finally, after a few more minutes of staring at shadows and convincing myself I wasn’t going insane, I pushed myself from the bed and ducked into the bathroom.
    I didn’t turn on the light when I locked the door behind me; I knew the corners of this place like the curves of my own body. I slid out of my clothes and turned on the shower, pushed the heat to almost-scalding. Then, in the pitch blackness, I stepped under the spray. In here, I could pretend I was anywhere else. The darkness could be a cave, the cosmos, the water some magical liquid washing me clean inside and out. I slid to the wall of the shower, sinking down to rest on the floor of the cubicle. And it was then I let the last week crash in. It was too much, all too much.