blackbird by Gina Frisken

Klaus Rabe stood taller than his neighbours and his thick blond hair, bright blue eyes and broad shoulders made it hard for him to blend in. His 24-year-old wife, Heike, wore her hair back and in a tight bun, but her natural beauty was rarely unnoticed. All admired their picture-perfect twin boys; especially the landlord, who looked forward to their morning visits. It was obvious they were big for eight months and Heike had trouble carrying them both.

 

That ordinary morning, a Thursday of no consequence or drama, Klaus woke up and left Heike’s side. He walked to the cupboard, and looked towards the bed. He turned the key and heard the click of the lock. The twins slept just a metre away, but did not stir. Klaus sat and clutched the rifle with both hands, resting on it as if it were a support.

 

Heike’s childlike face was turned towards the window unaffected by the morning rays. The babies’ tiny palms faced up and rested on the white sheet.  Klaus’ right hand moved down toward the trigger and stopped. He saw the black raven outside perched on the sill.

 

Whispers fluttered across backyard fences, within pub walls, and outside construction sites, but no one knew why. No one understood why.