The rain was a steady, monotonous curtain against the slate tiles, washing the gargoyle's moss-stained perch in a perpetual, cold gray. Below, the city’s gothic spires were swallowed by mist, giving the rooftop a sense of immense, damp isolation. He sat on the ledge, his stone form looking less like a guardian and more like a statue perpetually waiting for a bad day. “...and so, when you see them,” the therapist, a woman whose sensible tweed seemed out of place against the monumental stone, prompted gently, “you anticipate the impact. The sudden, chaotic flutter.” The gargoyle, whose name was Corvus, shifted his weight. The movement was slow, grinding against the wet limestone. “It’s not the impact, precisely. It’s the intent. The sheer, casual disregard for the architecture. They treat the cathedral like a landing strip.” “But they are simply birds, Corvus. They are biological necessities.” Corvus stared out over the parapet, where the drain spouts wept continuous rivulets. “They are mess. They are unpredictable vectors of filth and noise. And they congregate. They gather in impossible, greasy flocks, right beneath the eaves. It’s a calculated assault on the dignity of the stone.” The therapist sighed, making a small note on her pad. “We are talking about phobia, Corvus. An irrational fear. A phobia, not a critique of avian urban planning.” He lifted a massive, clawed hand, flexing the stone digits. “You ask me to accept the irrational. But how can I accept the sheer, pointless volume of it? They descend like a plague of small, flapping judgment. And I am built to withstand centuries of weather, of war, of man. But a pigeon… a single pigeon landing directly on my nose, cooing that wet, demanding sound, makes me feel… structurally compromised.” A sudden, sharp coo echoed from the nearby gutter. Corvus froze, his posture becoming rigid, every muscle in his stone frame seeming to seize up. He didn't look at the sound source; he just stared at the rain-slicked stone floor between them, breathing shallowly, as if the mere act of respiration was too much effort.
grit · uneasy