He hated crows. They were always picking on him. Literally. His eyes were long gone. They sat on him. Shat on him. Mocked him in his failure of what he was meant to be.
For many years he’d stood there. He’d never moved a toe, he didn’t even have one. He had no possibilities. No hope. The crows were eating his head.
A crow was sitting on his shoulder right now. Nibbling on his neck. Sticking it’s beak into a hole where his ear would have been, pulling out the straws that would have been his brains. That’s when it happened. One of his fingers moved.
After all this years, he moved a finger. He looked at his hand. This was the biggest moment in his existence. His hand shot out, caught the bird by it’s neck. The other crows flew away. They hadn’t expected this.
The crow fell to the ground, his hand connected to it. It was shaking. He saw his arm (yes, with no eyes, that’s how scarecrows with consciousness work), long, glittering in the light, moving like a… snake. It crawled out of the glove. It was a snake. The scarecrow watched as the snake devoured the crow slowly.
He couldn’t move, after all. Stupid thing to believe, anyway. He was a scare crow. Things were better, though. He had a friend.