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The first time I watched someone get executed by the Raven, it was less gruesome than I’d expected. Mum had always covered my eyes before, leaving my overactive imagination to fill in the visuals for their screams: the Raven tearing its victim to shreds, blood spilling over the cobblestones like tiny rivers, filling the veins of the Street, keeping it alive. It plagued my nightmares. They ware always the same: having my own countdown on the back of my neck, with no one around to tell me how long I had left. The Street was completely deserted. The only creatures left other than myself were the Mayor - her hard eyes and ever raised eyebrow staring, detached, as she releases the Raven - and the Raven itself, mercilessly hunting down its target. I could never move in those dreams. I always just stood there, unable to look away as the Raven soared towards me, its pointed beak glistening and ready to pick at my flesh.
I would wake in a cold sweat, Mum holding me close, rocking me back and forth to calm me down. She’d sing a lullaby, one in our own language, an old love song between a child and their elders. Then she’d tell me stories about our home planet. I couldn’t remember it. The Street was all I knew. I let my imagination run wild, though, imagining all the beautiful places Mum described, letting myself be lulled into better dreams of one day going back and being able to experience my real home for the first time.
But we could never leave the Street.
The Mayor wouldn’t let us. We’d been here so long that Mum could hardly remember why or how we got here in the first place. Now that I’m older, I realise that not all things must be as Mum said in her stories. But I still hoped I’d go back one day.
My nightmares became less frequent once I watched my first execution. I heard the commotion outside and ran out, Mum a few steps behind me. I saw someone loudly pleading at the Mayor. She looked thoroughly uninterested in whatever the person had to say to her. She touched the symbols on her collarbone and the beggar screamed. They rose to their feet and tried to run, but the Raven was too fast. Mum took my hand and squeezed tightly, not moving to cover my eyes like she usually did.
Death by the Raven is surprisingly graceful. It seems an odd thing to call death beautiful, but I cannot think of another word that is more apt. It fascinated me the way the Raven disappeared straight into its target’s chest, leaving behind tiny tendrils of black smoke. I had to look away when their face distorted beyond recognition from the pain.
And then the suffering would aprubtly end. Their face would relax as the light in their eyes died, their features resetting and crumpling on the floor like I do with drawings I am not happy with.
In subsequent years, I saw many more Raven executions. The Mayor insists she doesn’t like performing the executions, but I’ve noticed she’s very quick to award countdowns. I wonder if she fears she’s losing authority here. Everyone here is so scared of conflict. Conflict means unhappy residents; unhappy residents upsets the peace; upsetting the peace numbers your days.
You can tell who’s a runner and who will look death in the eye as their existence is erased by how early you hear the beating of the Raven’s wings. You can never outrun the Raven. But if your countdown still has a minute or two to go and the Raven has escaped its cage, you know someone is going to run.
Most people run.
Now it’s my turn. Mum is sick. Hopefully the medicine I stole will be enough. The Mayor lets you keep a stolen good, but the price is your life. I knew what was going to happen to me when I did it. I’ve arranged for someone to take care of Mum when I’m gone. I hope she stays around for a long time.
With five minutes left on my countdown, I step into the street. The Mayor is waiting for me, her expression identical to the one she always wore in my nightmares. She’s expecting me to beg for my life, the way everyone does.
I don’t.
I hold onto my dignity as I wait, listening for the rustle of wings. I don’t know if I’ll be a runner or a facer. I like to think I will stand my ground, but I confess I don't know what I will do.
Only a few minutes until I find out.
A crowd starts to gather around me, dead silent. My chin starts to tremble, thinking about Mum. I try to hold firm. I’m ready for this. I chose this.
The Mayor brushes her collarbone.
Suddenly, I realise I don’t want to die. I want to take care of Mum. I want to give back the medicine in exchange for my life. Mum expected to die here when she came. She came here to protect me from something or someone. She wouldn’t want me to die. I want to be there for her last moments. I want to be the one to carry that grief around, not the other way around.
What have I done?
I hear a sharp caw somewhere in the Street, two minutes left on my countdown. My resolve crumbles into ash and I scream, turning around pushing my way through the crowd, barely noticing their pitied stares.
I have to escape this, I think. I don’t want to die.
I tear through the street, running faster than I’ve ever run before. My peripheral is a blur as I sift through every memory of the Street I have, trying to figure out where to hide. To find a place the Raven can’t find me.
I can hear it gaining on me.
I don’t dare look behind me. Instead, I fly towards the Abandoned Terrace. I burst through the door, closing it behind me out of habit, then curse myself for wasting precious time. I almost fall down the stairs to the basement, shove the crate that obscures the opening to my favourite drawing nook from view and curl up in there.
The last thing I ever see is a shiny raven cutting through the darkness, and then…
Agony.