The Crow Frequency Transcript
May 14, 2019
[STATIC AND THE SOUND OF RADIO STATIONS BEING FLIPPEDTHROUGH- FADES AS NARRATOR BEGINS TO SPEAK]
Welcome to This Is Cheaper Than Therapy, I am The Narrator andyou are not alone. This is a space to say the things you feel likeyou can’t, and to talk about the things you regret ever havingsaid. This is a place for confessions. For warnings. For apologiesand declarations. For pulling that internal monologue from clenchedteeth and watching incisors fly across the room like shootingstars. For forgotten things, lost things, and those oh so quietmoments you think no one notices. I do, listeners; I notice themall. This Is Cheaper Than Therapy.
[TAPE WHIRS]
To live is, in itself, an act of futile rebellion; the cells ofyour body destined to one day become no more than particles ofdust, your life- just an afterthought- in an empty room. So...
[STATIC]
Be the biggest rebel you can be! Dare to live! Stare up at anunflinching god and finger-snap your leather jacketed heart out,listeners! All you need is a little self-confidence and anything ispossible. Take Debbie Plymouth for instance, a Florida native andsmall Etsy store owner, who tonight is trying desperately to blockout the moon by throwing heaped buckets of paint at the sky.
“I don’t trust it, looking down at me with its weirdsilver eyes.” She’s saying to onlookers, “ThinkI’m going to let it keep laying its grey peepers on my house?Nuh-uh. No more. Night sun, get outta here.”
So far she has covered four sedans and a hatchback in a trulystriking shade of poppy orange. When an owner of one of thevehicles was asked for their thoughts on the situation they repliedthat their car was now the brightest thing they had seen in monthsand they had forgotten colours could have so much life in them.
“It’s fine,” they said, “Really, I getit.”
You need more friends like Debbie, they’d be a good influence onyou.
[FOOTSTEPS]
[TRAIN DOOR SLIDING OPEN]
Taking our eyes away from the skies and to something a littlecloser to home-
[TRAIN DOOR SLIDING CLOSED]
we go now to Cul-De-Sac Chapters, where Andrew Perez has justboarded a train.
[FOOTSTEPS STOP]
[FABRIC RUSTLING AS ANDREW SITS DOWN]
There are no other passengers tonight. Few people take thisroute.
[MECHANICAL NOISES OF TRAIN INCREASE AS IT TAKESOFF]
That’s okay, he needs space for this; one mistake could ruineverything. Sitting in line with the windows, his back to thedriver, he begins an inventory of the items stuffed into his grey,woollen overcoat.
[FABRIC RUSTLING]
He hopes he has his back to the driver, at least; the water he’dpoured on the subway tiles before he’d boarded ran east and heprayed the liquid had been drawn to ‘TheDamp’. He begins to place the objects onto the seatbefore him. A brush, teeth chewing on long strands of strawberryblonde hair- Check.
[CLUNK]
A photograph of him rubbing sunscreen into her skin- a day atthe beach. Isn’t that sweet.
[QUIET THUMP]
Check.
A small, yet tasteful, bouquet of daisies adorned with ivoryribbon.
[RUSTLE OF FLOWERS]
Check.
A wishbone, wrapped in red string, one end left loose- that heis now tying around his right pinkie finger.
[CLINK]
Check.
Sliding his hand into his pocket he thumbs at the coins hedeposited there earlier, and slowly, takes one out into the stalecarriage air. Green eyes roaming the train car he balances the coinon top of his thumbnail, index finger pressing against it.
[DEEP INHALE AND EXHALE]
He takes a deep breath and holding the hairbrush and photographto his chest with his other hand, flowers pushed against thewishbone nestled securely in his palm-
[CLINK]
[METALIC SPINNING STARTS]
he flicks the coin into the air! Shadows seep down through thewindows, the rusted metal doors, spreading like spilt ink and wormtheir way across the floor curling around bench legs.
[MECHANICAL NOISE OF TRAIN INCREASES]
[HEAVY FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING]
The coin still spinning, never landing- shadows creeping evercloser, winding slivers of smoke around his throat beginning toconstrict- he feels the blood vessels underneath his eye socketburst.
[QUIET POP]
There is a let’s say large entityapproaching young Andrew; their skin is grey with small circularpatches where it has flaked away- perhaps a better word ismoulted. The figure’s long white beard iswrapped around their body, up and through the legs, in a sort ofrobe- or toga. Their beard, listeners is dripping wet.
[FOOTSTEPS STOP]
They are reaching out an impossiblylong hand, the bones constantly shifting underneath the skin, andplucking the coin from the air, holding it between two mottledfingernails and nestling it into one of the folds of a braid.
[MECHANICAL NOISES DECREASE]
The shadows recede. The payment was accepted.
It seems, our boy has reached his stop.
[DOOR OPENING]
[FOOTSTEPS]
Slowly rising from his chair, Andrewmakes his way throughthe metal doors, which appear taller somehow as if the train isdrifting into pieces; and into the subway station, dress shoessinging out against the cracked floor.
[DOOR CLOSING]
[MECHANICAL WHIR AS TRAIN DEPARTS]
There are…no stairs…or indeed exits in this station, listeners,just a long alley of smooth tiles curving from ceiling to floor;the tracks and the tunnel they run through severing their cavern ofceramic mint green. Groups of fireflies are buzzing overhead, aboutevery ten feet, where they are huddled around glinting wristwatcheswhich have been hung from steel rods protruding through the ceilinglike teeth. It’s all very Art Deco.
Hmmm, Andrew is prying his shaking fingers from the itemspreviously clutched to his breast and layingthem on theground either side of him, the brush on the right and thephotograph on the left.
[THUMP]
[CLUNK]
He is still holding the flowers. He is-
[MATERIAL SHIFTING]
sitting down between them.
[WET MATERIAL DRAGGING]
[THUMP]
[TINY BONES RUBBING AGAINST EACH OTHER]
The darkness of the tunnel seems to be…moving.Wriggling. There is something…shining,coming further into view. It is….the bone white socket of ashoulder, blood long ago freed from the body.
[WET MATERIAL DRAGGING]
[THUMP]
[TINY BONES RUBBING AGAINST EACH OTHER]
The shoulder is attached to a head of long, mattedstrawberry-blonde hair, neck bent at an inquisitive 45-degreeangle. The torso is pulling itself along the tracks by a singlearm, legs having rotted away. They are coming- for Andrew, who issitting perfectly still.
[WET MATERIAL DRAGGING]
[THUMP]
[TINY BONES RUBBING AGAINST EACH OTHER]
He is terrified. This never gets any easier. They have almostreached his shoes…they are wrapping their remaining bony fingersaround his shin....and pulling themselves up his body- both sets ofgreen eyes staring into each other. He is wrapping his arms aroundthem …and smiling through silent tears.
[WET MATERIAL DRAGGING BECOME LOUDER]
[THUMPING BECOMES LOUDER]
[TINY BONES RUBBING AGAINST EACH OTHER BECOMESLOUDER]
He is opening his mouth and saying…“Happy Anniversary,Mum.”
[THUMPING, DRAGGING, AND RUBBING STOPS]
There are few days where the living can interact with the dead,listeners- you know this- and it is important to celebrate themhowever you can. He is helping her onto the ground next to himand……and he is handing her the bouquet of flowers, her favourite.Well, you know, isn’t that something.
[COARSE BRUSHING]
He begins to brush her hair, being careful not to rip out anyfrom the base, there arealready so many patches where herskull shines through. She is…eating the flowers, yellowpetals sliding through spit slicked teeth, dribbling onto thetracks beneath them. Oh, Andrew.
[SHAKY INHALE AND EXHALE]
Her hair no longer matted floats around her shoulders, twinklingin the light of the fireflies.
[WET MATERIAL DRAGGING-MULTIPLE]
[THUMP-MULTIPLE]
[BONES BREAKING]
Just a few more minutes, he thinks...just….. a few… more….
[WET MATERIAL DRAGGING-MULTIPLE]
[THUMP-MULTIPLE]
[BONES BREAKING]
Picking up the photograph he runs his knuckles overtheoutline of her face on its glossed surface before holdingit in front of her eye-line where, crooked fingers curl around it,pulling it into her mouth- and she begins, to gnaw on theedges.
[WET MATERIAL DRAGGING-MULTIPLE BECOMESLOUDER]
[THUMP-MULTIPLE BECOMING LOUDER]
[BONES BREAKING BECOMES LOUDER]
Twisted limbs are slowly making their way out of the darktunnel, crawling on top of each other and falling in viscous waves.Oh, no- there are- there are so many more since last year…Thosepoor things. Broken bodies crawl across the tracks and with a kissplaced on the top of his mother’s head Andrew wraps his pinkiesaround either side of the wishbone and pulls.
[SNAP]
He has a train to catch.
[MECHANICAL WHIR OF TRAIN APPRAOCHING]
The train approaching does not knock the bodies against thewalls, it does not rip bone from the socket with a wet pop; notthis time, not this train- this driver would never hurt the dead.The train, simply, passes through like a shadow.
[DOORS SLIDING OPEN]
Andrew standsand with a wave to his mother,
[FOOTSTEPS]
boards the train,careful to sit with his back to thedriver.
[DOORS CLOSING]
He wraps his arms around himself and slides his hands inside hispockets, his left thumb running up and down the ridges of hisremaining coin and begins the train ride home.
[MECHANICAL WHIR OF TRAIN FADES OUT]
[TAPE CLICKS]
There are many things you will miss in this world, and even morein the next. Loss, it seems, is a guillotine; you are always on oneside or the other. You, listener, cannot be someone’severything-but, you can be their one good thing; a respite in the24-hour news cycle of life. You can weave a safe moment for them tocrawl into and rest their feet, just for a little while. One goodthing. One small act of kindness. That’s not too hard, is it?
[CHIMES]
Feeling weighed down? Tired of going to work just to buygluten-free muesli bars that taste like dirt? Bored of monotonouswatercooler talk and pretending you understand how the internetworks? Why not burn all of your possessions today!
[INTERFERENCE]
Burn everything you own and just start walking, venture out ofyour city or town until all monuments of civilisation fade into adistant horizon. Wander aimlessly through bushland -the sun beatingdown upon you until your entire body becomes a single giantblister; horrifying- and beautiful as you realise this is the mostunified your frail form has felt since birth. Turn your faceupwards to a crimson sky as a long elated screech escapes yourmewling mouth; earthworm-like and buzzing. The descent of a murderof crows blocking out the sun with sleekly muscled wings, tearingyour wreathing form to pieces and swallowing you down into theirwarm gullets. As they absorb you and make you a part of a somethingbigger than yourself you finally feel the calming sense ofcommunity- the knowledge of serving a higher purpose that you havespent so much of your life trying to find.
This message has been paid for by the crows. Find your piece ofcommunity and blister in the sun with happiness today.
[CHIMES]
[STATIC]
At This Is Cheaper Than Therapy we want to help you unburdenyourself. We want you to be light as afeather. We want to help you shake loosethose pesky worries fluttering around your pretty little head. Wewant you to be free. It is time,listeners. It is time to let it all out. It’s time; to confess.
Tonight’s confession comes from a girl with no name, who at thismoment is tracing an exacto knife around the edge of her jaw. Sweatrolls in fat droplets down her forehead and lands on the kitchentable. Almost…almost…there! Peeling her right ear apart from thebeige wallpaper she places it in a pile with the others. It hastaken her all night but she has removed herself from the last photoin her family home. They’ll never know she was here. They’ll neverknow she was anything, at all. It’s for the best, really. She isnot….…easy…..listeners, and when you are someone who is noteasy…well….you make things difficult. They’ll be better off. She issure they’ll be better off.
She gathers the photos in her hands and makes her way to thekitchen sink where she lets them fall. A Johnny Red brand matchflickers to life and she holds it over the photographs watching herface bubble, the shrinking and expanding of burnt hands. Shelistens to the sizzle. Maroon and indigosmoke twists together and saunters upwards from the flames, lickingat the ceiling, batting at the light fixtures. Thick, white slickoozes down the metal drain, slug-like, from a charred eye socketuntil finally- there is nothing left to burn. The smoke drifts outan open window to play keep away with the moon and the girl isalone.
Walking back to the kitchen table she feels…lighter as if agreat weight has been lifted from her. It is the closest to happyshe has felt in years. Slipping her hand underneath the strap ofher duffel bag, crumpled across a chair, she goes to take the firstfew steps of a new life, a slate washed clean of resentment andpast mistakes- but her hand- her hand passes through the strap. Herhand passes through everything. It seems our girl has made a fatalmiscalculation, listeners. She’d only intended for her family toforget her, for them to live easier lives but…they were the onlyones who knew she existed in the first place. All of her friends,who she hadn’t seen in years, had already forgotten her.
The front door creaks open and her parents who seem bothbrighter and out of focus look around at the broken photo frames,the shards of glass covering the carpeted floor and the dozens ofphotographs littering the table. She has made them feel afraid intheir own home. Her father picks up one of the photographs withshaky hands and wonders why someone has cut a strange shape out ofthe left side- there’s no one missing, there can’t be; his familyis all there. The girl with no name tries to touch him, to scream-but no noise comes out of her mouth…her father shivers.
Not all ghosts are dead, listeners. There are many things thatcan haunt you; mistakes, photographs, apologies we can never givenor receive. Rest assured, even if you forget these things, theywill never forget you.
From This Is Cheaper Than Therapy, tonight’s goodnight goes outto a florist looking at a sea of flowers and wishing for happyhomes. Goodnight.
[STATIC AND THE SOUND OF RADIO STATIONS BEING FLIPPEDTHROUGH]
This Is Cheaper Than Therapy is written and mixed by EloiseArcher, and edited by Paul Grealish who also voices The Narrator.Both are producers. Like the show? Follow us on Twitter @ThisIsCTTfor transcripts, extras not in the show, and more. From both of ushere at This Is Cheaper Than Therapy, it’s gonna be okay.
©Eloise Archer
