The Coo-Curse of Saint Jude’s Flatch

[Setting: A damp, slate-grey rooftop. The air smells of wet mortar and coal smoke. Rain drips steadily from gargoyle mouths and ornate drainage spouts. The client, a gargoyle named Cassian, sits hunched on a weathered stone bench, his wings folded tightly against his back. The therapist, unseen, speaks softly.] THERAPIST: And when you say ‘sudden,’ Cassian, what does that entail? CASSIAN: (A low, gravelly whisper) It entails velocity. And a specific, sickening rhythm. THERAPIST: The pigeons. CASSIAN: They are not birds. They are feathered projectiles. They do not understand the geometry of this place, the weight of the cornice, or the sheer, historical misery of this rooftop. They simply… arrive. THERAPIST: And what happens when they arrive? CASSIAN: The sudden, chaotic flutter. The sheer volume of them. It’s a biological assault. I am built for permanence. For the millennia. I am meant to embody the weight of the city's despair. And yet, they appear, and they are everywhere, making that awful, wet cooing sound, like wet gravel being poured over my scapulae. THERAPIST: You feel exposed? CASSIAN: Exposed? No. I feel… trivialized. Like a piece of architecture that has been reduced to a mere landing strip. I am supposed to be the embodiment of eternal vigilance, and I spend my days staring at the wet, oily sheen of the slate, waiting for the inevitable, flapping, grey tide. I just want the rain to wash them away. I want the rain to make them heavy enough to fall. THERAPIST: You are afraid of them because they remind you of something else, aren't you? CASSIAN: (Silence. Only the drip, drip, drip of the rain punctuates the air.) THERAPIST: What is it?