The crows, the messengers for the divine.
Jill was reduced to a husk of her former self while under the influence of the compound, P-30. She was conscious, steadily breathing under the grim mask concealing her face; pale in anguish as she took weightless, phantomic steps towards her objective. The dissonance between her thoughts, emotions, and actions began to tear her mind apart, she existed, for what felt like an eternity, in a violent haze. The tears that would've fallen, the screams that would've escaped her lips, all compressed inside; they begged for release but were garroted. Ligatured just behind the mask that upkept the visage of the crow, muted and harrowing.
"Some poets have used the crows, with their gruesome caw and dark plumage, as signals of the approach of gloomy autumn and winter, usually as unwelcome substitutes for melodious nightingales, beautiful pheasants, and the like, which enliven nature in the spring. Sometimes, too, the uncouth crow with its raucous cry is contrasted to the musical nightingale or the “eloquent” parrot, usually in allusion to the imposed company of two uncongenial creatures. The raven has also sometimes been disparaged by poets because of its predilection for the desert, again usually in contrast to the nightingale, which prefers verdant gardens."