[ WP ] To save her , you must break the vow you swore on your life .

A murder. That's what you call a group of crows. 
 
 Ironic, really. A murder. We were dressed in all black, head to toe, holding umbrellas over our heads to protect our feathers from the rain. All of us were perched on our own stretch of wire, looking down with slicked beaks and cold, empty eyes. No words exchanged, just us listening to the barren cadence of winter rain pattering on the world around us. 
 
 A murder. That's funny. 
 
 We looked down into the six foot hole of my murdered wife. Half closed their eyes and imagined her, surrounded by roses, cushioned in lavender and oakwood. The chiseled gravestone above her resting place read “ R.I.P. Abigail Winchester, Loved But Not Forgotten. ” My jaw clenched as I read the words. 
 
 I wanted to spit on it. Spit on it because – she did n't die in peace, she died screaming. Maybe my name was on her lips the seconds before the arc of the lamp came crashing down, or maybe – if she remembered how much I drank – she'd have called for someone else from the murder instead. 
 
 Arnold the drunk, Arnold the waste, Arnold the never-shoulda-married-my-daughter. Some probably think I did it. 
 
 *Is n't a bit suspicious how he was n't there when the neighbor found her? * 
 
 *I heard they found him tipped like a cow on top of a sewer vent, whiskey-lipped and asleep. * 
 
 Arnold the killer. The rain kept pouring silence. 
 
 I caressed the watch on my wrist through the front pocket of my Fog jacket. Time. It's like the faucets on a shower, either too much or too little. There never is enough time for most people: they're born, they live, they die, and the gears in the sky keep turning and their memories catch dust in the archives of Forgotten Existences. 
 
 My problem with time is n't th=that there's too much. For me, anyway. I pressed down the face of the watch and watched the world freeze. The rain held in abeyance like a volley of arrows before impact, and the murder became weeping angels, the kind of statues you only see in museums in Italy. 
 
 Time. It's been so long since we last danced. 
 
 I pulled my coat closer to me, and it felt a million times heavier. I tried thinking of another solution, I really did. Maybe I can move states with her, maybe she and I can live in harmony in some small town in Illinois, or maybe - heh - I could forget about her and move on. 
 
 Who the fuck am I kidding? I knew what I was going to do the second I found her. I would n't have spent so much time researching the stalker, finding out where he lived, who he was, what he was doing on November 5th, 2016 at 10:40 P.M. if I had planned on keeping my options open. Yeah, I know what I'm going to do. 
 
 I'm gon na go back a week and bury a hatchet in that fuck's face. And for the rest of my life, I'll feel shit about it, but atleast I'll feel shit with her. Atleast I get to hold her for one more night, atleast she gets to caress my face and tell me to promise sobriety for at least one week, and atleast I get to lie to her and tell her I will. 
 
 If I have to become Arnold the killer to make that happen, well, so be it. 

