Anatomy of a dead cat, René Kramer [english novels to improve english txt] 📗

the rest of the station seemed to be, even if there were millions of people in it.
He felt very uncomfortable while he was standing there, loitering in a shop where he could find everything and buy nothing. Brave new world, everything available and nothing at hand.
The damped neon light in the shop made it look creepy, like those sanitariums in horror movies, but it fitted perfectly in that station, which seemed exactly like one of those.
Suddenly he heard a scratching noise, such as someone or something with very long fingernails was grabbing an iron bar. He felt observed, he could sense that someone was looking at him behind his back.
Then a croak yelled through the room, cut the air and made it's way into his ears. He turned around, nearly tumbled over his own feet, and saw a big black raven sitting on the top of an iron rack.
It was looking right into his eyes, it's cold view seemed to slice him into pieces, like it could read his mind. Scary demon, it's small black eyes sparkled in the neon light and the plain black feathers shone like a funeral suit. One of the ravens feet was dark black, the other one deep red. As far as he knew, and he knew not much about birds, that wasn't normal. It must have been some kind of genetic defect or mutation, not very surprising in a place like this.

He could feel the bird thinking, it seemed to judge him. No man should be judged by an animal, not after a million years of evolution had set him ion top of the food chain. The bird was still looking at him. It's view clasped his mind like a vice, he was paralyzed, the way this thing was staring at him hit his mind like a sledge hammer. He felt as if he was drowning in it's eyes while it was eating his mind.
Something told him to leave this place immediately, this shop was no good and that damn view of that damn raven was about to drive him insane.
Slowly he started to walk backwards out of the store, while the bird still sat on the rack, staring at him and he was staring at it.
As he noticed the hard concrete under his feet again, he could feel how a heavy burden dropped off his shoulders.
Something happened to the raven. It began to spread it's wings, jumped of the rack, flew right over his head and landed on one of the fast working clocks. Here, sitting on that clock it continued it's staring. Wherever he would run, that thing and it's view would chase him.
His nervous eyes began to search for a place to hide. His roaming view stopped at the other store, the stationery shop. It's doors were also wide opened , so he walked towards it, the ravens stare still resting on him. As he entered the store, he directly recognized it's similarity to the other one.
The same neon light, the same racks – just with other goods on them, the same look of abandonment. This shop held the usual things those shops sell : paper, pens, newspapers. Nothing special, nothing rare, but everything weird instead.
The weirdest thing, but also the only remarkable thing was a big book, probably with thousands of pages, which was laying on the counter.
By stepping closer towards it, he could see, that all pages were blank and an old, noble looking pen had been placed next to it. The book's cover was made of brown, faded leather which gave it the look of a bible or something. It was opened, so he turned some pages, but nothing was written on them. He shut the book to have a closer look at the cover and he saw, that the book, which was totally empty, although had a title. The title was written in those old letter people used in the dark age or the early 19th century, so he could barely read it.
After he figured out the meaning of a few unknown letters, he was able to read the complete title.
“An ode to whom it may concern” , strange title for an empty book.
He had the feeling that he had seen that book before, but he could not remember when or where, it just appeared familiar to him. In some ways it seemed that he should write something, just to start filling it, not to leave it empty. So he opened it and wrote something he remembered out of a book he read years ago: “Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd.”

. Nice. That was what should be written in a book like this. He placed the pen next to the book again, maybe someone else would come and write more.
Suddenly he felt observed again, exactly like he felt when the raven in the record shop stared at him, but he knew that it was outside. Then he heard a rustling noise out of the shops background.
He turned his head towards the direction from which the noise came, but he could see anything.
A few seconds later, there was another sound, like the sound of a paper fan, or and at that moment he already knew what made the sound, the flaps of a bird's wing.
The sound came closer and after a short time he saw another raven landing directly on the book on the counter. It looked very similar to the one from the other shop, but that thing in here had a white foot and a black one. The raven raised it's head, yelled an infernal croak through the room, lowered it's head and stared at him, exactly like the other one. That was too much. His blood pressure seemed to blow off the roof. No way. Two of them. Too much.
He ran out of the store, the raven flying right behind him, chasing him. The other one, which was still sitting at the clock jumped off and joined it's fellow.
Both birds croaked very loudly, the insufferable sound filled the entire hall.
And he was running, running for his life, running like hell.
Then he tumbled, fell down and his head was smashed onto the ground.
He sat on his knees, raised his head and while the warm thick blood was running down his forehead
he looked around, searching for the ravens.
They were sitting on statue, one on it's left shoulder the other one on the head. He saw that statue for the first time, maybe he overlooked it when he walked through the hall. It was made of the same concrete as the rest of the station but it looked like the artist took more care in creating it than he took in building the hall.
The statue enthroned on an column so that it's head was close under the roof.
It allegorized a young lady holding a black and white emblem. She looked over her right shoulder so he could not see her face. Altogether, it was an impressive scenery which really fascinated him.
The lady seemed not to look at something, it appeared like she was looking away, like she was ignoring him. Well, according to the apathy of the other people in the station, it was no surprise.

He stood up, wiped the dirt out of his cloths and took a look at a schedule which hung on the column. This station seemed to be the terminal stop of all lines. There were only arrivals listed on the sheet, no departures. Ultimate destination, Dead end. No way out. He had to stay here, forever.
In some ways he had resigned. There was no possibility to escape and he started dealing with it.
His body and mind were exhausted now, burnt out, too tired to sleep.
He looked at the statue again, which was still on it's place, looking away, ignoring him.
It's light gray concrete looked very harmonic in the light of the evening sun, which was now falling through the windows of the train hall. That light gave it a very sublime look, it made it's entire dignified appearance even more intense.
He could spend hours looking at the concrete lady, even if he could not see her face, due to her indifference.
Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by the ghostly whistle of the last incoming train. It was an old train, probably over a hundred years old, but it still seemed to be working very well.
Gray smoke streamed out of the flue so that he could see it even if it was still miles away.
He could slightly hear the distant gasp of the train, it was slowly approaching.
The headlights of the engine shone unnaturally bright, they looked like eyes, the eyes of an iron horse, galloping over the railway, snorting fire and smoke out of it's nostrils.
He could feel that the ground slowly started quaking. The earth was struggling against that man-made beast.
The two ravens, which were still sitting on the statue started to croak again. The noise was insufferable , he felt like his head was about to burst. He tried to make them stop it, shouted, threw things at them, but nothing seemed to work. Then one thought came up in his mind: what if he really had to stay here forever, with the crows, the statue and all the other weird stuff?
No, he won't take it any longer. There are only two ways to be: sky high or six feet under, start taking arms and dive into the sea of troubles. His feet started to walk on their own, moved him onto the edge of the platform, climbed down and stopped in the middle of the rail.
The two ravens spread their wings, flew straight towards him and landed on his shoulders.
There he was, the coronation of god's creation, laying face down on top of the food chain.
The train was now only a few hundred meters away, he could feel the vibrations in the rail, hear the moaning of the old engine, smell the smoke from the coal fire which burnt inside of it. The two ravens were still sitting on his shoulders, screaming their infernal croak into his ears. He took his eyes up to have a last look at the statue. The train was coming closer, in a few seconds his suffering would come to it's end.


Then he heard a creaking noise, the statue had turned her head and was now looking at him.
For the first time, he could see her face . Pure loveliness. A bright sparkle in the impenetrable darkness hitting him right between the eyes. The fading twinkle of a long forgotten hope. This was how female beauty shall be defined. Impersonated perfection, looking at him with her concrete eyes. Watching him. The patroness of the dying.

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

-Edgar Allen Poe, The Raven-