Ethan Burke - The Balcony

[Admin]

You wake to find yourself trapped. Though you struggle, your limbs and torso are tightly secured to your seat with silver duct tape. You are sitting on a simple, metal chair on a wrought iron balcony bolted to the outside of an old, brick building. The breeze is pleasant and cool, but you are not of a mind to notice or care.

Before you lies the forest in all its moonlit splendour, seeming to go on for countless miles. You cannot remember ever seeing such a place in your entire life. Still, you are more concerned with your escape. The small motions you make with your boots reveals broken glass beneath your feet from the shattered pane just behind your head.

A crow caws, drawing your attention immediately. Perched on the handrail opposite is a large black bird, glaring at you with a beady marble of an eye. It seems to be sizing you up, evaluating you. In its beak hangs a thin ribbon of what looks like flesh. There are others gathering, circling above, or landing all around.

You notice something stuck to the back of your hand and glance down to find a simple, white card with a single sentence printed on it: “Save her, if you can.”

[King of Cunts]

Burke opened crusted over eyes to find himself somewhere other than where he’d fallen asleep. That wasn’t entirely unusual. It wasn’t even unusual to find himself taped to a chair. Red had her moments.

Only it wasn’t normal for him to wake up with concussion. He tried to remember and drew a blank. The minutes before he’d passed out had been knocked clean out of his head by the hammer blow to his temple. He felt nauseous, his empty stomach churning. His inability to move just aggravated it.

His arms were tied from the wrists to the elbow, so tight that there wasn’t even any slack for him to exploit. He tried to wrench his legs free and found them tied the same way, ankles up to knees. He was fixed into the chair like a condemned man waiting for the switch to be flipped.

Glass crunched under his boot. He leaned forward, peering down at his feet. Broken shards, like he’d expected, fallen from somewhere. He rocked his head back, tapping it against the pane behind him. It was already broken. A nudge with his head would dislodge enough new fragments that he might be able to get hold of one.

It wasn’t a perfect plan - he’d rather have used his teeth than a piece of glass - but it was better than nothing.

There was a warbling scream. Something shot out of the darkness and landed in front of him, on the rail of the balcony. The crow ruffled its feathers, preening itself. All he could do was stare as it turned a single, beady eye his way.

“Ah, fuck,” he grunted.

Throwing caution to the wind, he drove his head back into the window. A sliver cut along the back of his ear and he winced. A drizzle of warm blood slicked his neck. A cascade of broken pieces fell across his shoulders. A couple landed on the seat of the chair next to him. He reached for them, straining his fingers.

One was within his grasp, but dropped to the floor before he could grab it. The second piece, he managed to catch between two fingers and pull it up into his palm. He tried to grip it lightly, even though he was desperate not to let it get away from him.

The crow took that moment to make its move. It lunged at him, its beak punching through his cheek and hitting him in the teeth. He snarled, his hand tightening reflexively around the shard in his hand. Blood dribbled out between his fingers. He tried to shake the bird off, to blow it away, to startle it by yelling. It responded by pecking him in the forehead, narrowly avoiding his eye.

He twisted the shard in his grip, sawing frantically through the tape securing his left arm. He felt the slack building. With each stroke, he could move his arm more, but his fingers felt like they were in pieces already.

The crow pecked him on the top of the head, splitting his hairline. Blood ran into his eye. Its beak jabbed his skull and his head span, like it had hit him right in the bruise.

“Fuck off!” he roared, the same moment his left arm tore away from the seat.

He swung for the bird, scaring it into flight, and spun, slashing wildly at the tape on his other arm. The crow hit him in the face, its claws scrabbling for purchase in his mouth, trying to peck out his eyes. He opened his mouth to yell again and ended up with a talon laden foot flailing between his lips, shredding his tongue. He bit down and the foot went limp. The crow took flight as he spat out a mouthful of blood and bird pieces.

It wasn’t the first time he’d ever eaten crow. A year in the UBCS had seen to that.

His arms came free and he ducked, carving a gash through the tape on his right ankle. Another bird landed on his back, pecking a line of bloody holes along his spine. He leapt backwards, flattening his back to the wall and crushing the crow to a gory mess. It let out a surprised squawk, abruptly silenced.

He wrenched his right leg free and picked up the chair, wrenching it off his last limb. The silver cuff remained on his ankle. More crows were gathering, a murder, and he hurled the seat at them. It bounced off the handrail and tumbled into the darkness beyond, taking a couple of the little bastards with it.

One dove at him, going for his eyes. He blocked it with his palm, then spiked it into the floor. He tried to stamp on it, but it scurried out from under his foot.

The others took to wing and surged towards him, cawing and flapping their wings in his face. His fists flailed, striking targets that were barely big enough for him to feel like he was hitting anything. He gave up and ran along the balcony, knowing they’d rip him to pieces if he stayed.

The balcony ended at a conservatory that had been built as the transition between the building proper and the outdoor area. It was glass, and he wasn’t sure how strong it was, but he’d take any port in a storm. The door was open, at least. All he had to do was throw it closed behind him.

Crows thundered en masse across the glass, scratching the glass, pecking furiously. Some hit it at speed and knocked chunks from the panes. He didn’t know how long it would hold them out. It wasn’t like he was planning to hang around anyway.

There was one other door, leading inside. He rattled the handle, but it was locked.

“Shit. Fucking perfect.”

He looked around for something. Anything. He caught sight of the card taped to the back of his hand. Somehow, it had survived the onslaught of the crows. The single sentence felt like a taunt, a challenge.

“Fuck you,” he grunted, screwing it up into a ball and tossing it away.

Then, he continued his search.