Till We Ain't Strangers Anymore

CHAPTER TWO - Blackbird

He stood upon the balcony of his apartment in Lower Manhattan, sipping his tea and staring at the murder of crows all lined up outside staring back at him. It's as if they were waiting for something. Waiting for what, that remains to be the unanswered question. It used to freak him out when he first saw them, perched on the electric wires outside his window. A symbol of death, he's been told. They've been watching him everyday for a good couple of years now. He often wondered if they had been waiting for him to croak, like the doctors who kept telling him he's going to die any day now for the past two years. Ever since they found his body floating on the New York Harbor, practically lifeless, with no memory of his past. They said he should have died that day. They told him it was a miracle that he was still alive today. And everyday, he's made it his life's mission to prove them wrong.

Not today, birds. Not today. He took one last look at the crows, then went back inside his room.

He showered and put on fresh clothes, and started to get ready to begin the day. Any day that he woke up in the morning was a good day, but today was extra special. He had finally achieved something he wanted to do for a long time. He fixed his tie, making sure it was straight. He normally doesn't wear a neck tie to work. He was more of a dark jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket kind of guy. But today, he felt the need to look nice. He stared at himself in the full-length Cheval mirror, into his eyes that were blue as the ocean, which always seem to captivate people. His raven dark hair that emphasized his chiseled features, which often enchanted women. Not that he'd ever used his good looks to seduce women. He was above being a cad.

He always thought that he must justify the right to exist. And no one can deny that he's earned his right to be alive on this earth. He's a fairly decent guy. He's environmentally conscious, he recycles, plant trees. He's kind to animals, the type of guy who would rescue kittens stuck on tree branches. He does volunteer work for the community and donates to charity. He's a lover, not a fighter. His record is spotless. By everyone's standards, he's an all-around nice guy. A little too nice, much to the chagrin of Jillian.

His cellphone chimed to the tune of 'Jack and Jill'. Speak of the devil. That would be Jillian, his best friend ever since he could remember.

"Hello, Jill," he greeted.

"Hello, hello," she singsonged in a cheerful voice. "And a very good morning to you!"

"Someone's in a good mood," he teased.

"I am in a GREAT mood! I have the most amazing news,"she said.

"Me too! You go first," he told her.

"Nuh uh...you go first. Because whatever your news is, my news will blow it out of the water," she challenged.

"Okay, fine. She signed the papers! I'm free of her, finally," he announced excitedly.

"You mean Fire Crotch let you go? Wow! Didn't think she had it in her. That is some great news!" she said incredulously.

He chuckled at the woman at the other end of the line. Jillian. Only he gets to call her Jill. His dearest friend, from what he can recall. A fellow survivor from the New York Harbor incident. They made quite a pair. Two broken people who were trying to find their place in this crazy world.

"She's a bitch," she said, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"She's not a bitch," he disagreed.

"She's a bitch to everyone else, save you," she insisted.

"Oh, you mean just like the way YOU are?" he asked.

"Yes, except I don't wanna use you body for sex. Cause that would be so EWWW!" she cringed.