The rain was a constant, steady percussion against the slate tiles, washing the soot and lichen from the parapet railing. We sat—or rather, I was positioned—on a narrow ledge carved into the buttress of St. Jude’s. My stone haunches were cold, perpetually damp, and the air smelled of wet mortar and old copper. Dr. Elmsworth adjusted his spectacles, the reflection of the bruised sky catching in the lenses. “And when they gather, Bartholomew? When the flock descends?” I shifted, the movement grating against the moss-slicked granite. “I told you, Doctor, I merely observe. They are… vulgar. Their movements lack structural integrity.” He tapped a fountain pen against his notepad. “But the panic, Bartholomew. The way your wings—the ones that are technically just decorative talons—tense up. You are a creature of permanence. You are meant to withstand the centuries. Why does a bird, a common, unremarkable bird, cause you such acute distress?” I stared out over the valley, watching a cluster of pigeons wheeling carelessly below. They were fat, iridescent, and utterly oblivious. My jaw, carved into a permanent snarl of defiance, felt loose, trembling slightly. “They are unpredictable,” I managed, the word scraping out like gravel. “And their waste… it stains. It is messy, Doctor. It is an insult to the geometry of the divine.” He sighed, a sound swallowed by the downpour. “It’s fear, Bartholomew. It’s just fear.”
drip · uneasy