Murder

   Diana's head was killing her, almost like a migraine headache but the pain was deeper... much worse. She tried to turn over and bury herself deeper into her covers but she couldn't. And then came the second pain; that white, stabbing, almost burning sensation of extreme cold. She opened her eyes with a struggle. She was not in her bed, laying upon her mattress. Indeed, she had no idea where she was or any recollection of how she got there. She was laying on her back, that much was evident, looking up at a leaden sky. Tiny fragments of snow drifted down from the clouds. A few barren branches swayed back and forth in her field of vision.
   "Think she's awake?" she heard a voice, deathly quiet and raspy, whisper.
   "Maybe. Don't know." another voice replied.
   "Should we wake her?" continued the first voice.
   "No," replied another, new voice.
   She tried to move her head to get a better look at her surroundings. It was a struggle and her muscles and neck wouldn't move at first, but eventually she could move her head again. She looked down her body. She was barely clothed, laying on her back in the snow. Her arms and hands were black in color; frostbite. The snow around her was colored with large splatters of deep crimson. There were three crows on her torso, hopping back and forth, looking at her then at each other with rapidly tilting heads. She felt them as they landed from their hops and she felt their scratchy claws on her skin. Others were on the ground around her, dipping their beaks in the reddened snow. Even more were squawking from the branches.
   "I think she's awake," quipped a voice - different from the other three she heard.
   "So?"
   "She might move...."
   "She's not in any condition to move?"
   Why wasn't she? And who was talking? The birds? She blinked. More of them plopped onto her body, staring at her with black coal eyes. They tilted their heads left and right. She wanted to laugh. They were kind of cute. She couldn't move her arms, but if she could, she would've stroked one of the birds. What was a group of crows called? A flock? No.... she couldn't remember.
   Then she felt a sharp pain. One of the birds, the largest of the group, had dug it's beak into her body and pulled free a bloody clump of flesh. The bird swallowed it down. Others followed it's example. She thought that the largest was their leader. She tried to scream or move to scare the birds away but she could not move. Her limbs groaned in protest and did not move. She became frantic as more and more of the birds began to pick away at her. Blood streamed from the holes their cruel beaks left. Stop! she tried to scream. Get off of me! Her voice did not escape her lips.
   "Eat up," one of the voices said and she saw that it came from one of the birds.
   "Eat!" the others crowed.
   The birds picked at her flesh furiously. She could see her muscles underneath the ragged flesh. In some places, she saw bones picked clean; bleach white as the snow she lay on.
   "EAT!"
   More and more birds began to squawk and scream, the sound almost muffled by the sound of dozens of beating and fluttering wings. Black feathers flew to and fro as the birds entered a feeding frenzy, each beak ripping and tearing strips of skin from her body. Diana could only watch in horror as the birds ripped her body to pieces and picked it clean.
   And then it came to her. A murder. A group of crows is called a murder.