The farmers are uneasy tonight. The north wind is lashing out across the fields, urging the cattle to sacrifice themselves to the terror of the night.
The kids are afraid. Their parents pull them close, wrapping them up in the warmth of the tv's glow. There, in its flickering lights, the families find comfort in this week's murder mystery.
I hate these nights. The wind gets inside your head and thoughts become black holes. Seven years ago it was different. Brick walls, a tiled roof and a wife kept the prowling night at bay. Now I just have this corrugated slime box and the villager's persecutions.
I only did it once. But they told her that I'd probably do it again. So she packed my bags and left them by the garden gate. It seemed I'd spent most of my life trying not to be like my father to discover that one day, with the slip of a hand, I was.
Prison would've been easier than the edge of this field. Hell must be quieter. Nobody understands that I didn't mean to do it. They don't care. They just want me to disappear so they can tidy away my tin house and plant grapevines.
It's bedlam out there now. The wind’s woken up the crows. Their shrieks rip through the village, mocking the tidy comfort of the villager's lives. The villager's turn up the volume to hear who's done it. But it's no good. The only way to drown out the carrion's call is to accept it.