(The story below is my submission to Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenge at his website www.terribleminds.com. Direct link here http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/06/15/flash-fiction-challenge-the-crooked-tree/ . The story was an idea I had at two o'clock in the morning. Kept me up, but I enjoyed writing it. I will warn you, it's a bit morbid. I would probably label this under horror. The image of the tree is from Wendig's website, and taken by him personally.)
Photo from terribleminds.com |
Ugh, he’s doing it again. He got this
way whenever he went to visit the tree. A scary act of nature it was. A warped
tree in the middle of nowhere near his family’s old house. The crooked tree, he
called it as a child. He stared at a bit of mold-ridden rope tied around it. Probably
used for a tire swing…probably. Everything had a tint of grey out in these
woods. Looked like an old photograph a family would take while colonizing the
frontier. Sitting in rocking chairs showing off their rifles and shotguns.
Looking directly at the camera, but not smiling. No, of course not smiling. Since
he was a kid, when everything else was too much or whenever his head hurt from
the stress. He liked to come down, go out to the woods, and just stare at the
crooked tree.
He had an awful headache lately. His grades
were plummeting to an all-time low, or so he thought. His professors despised
him, or so he thought. His girlfriend
was sleeping with another guy, or so he thought. He was also certain that his roommate
was secretly contemplating his murder, or so he fucking thought! He let a good
yell and began punching the tree in frustration. Wincing at the pain, but
enjoying it nonetheless. He wanted to do it right here. Blow his brains out
right on to the damned plant. His blood and grey matter fertilizing the soil
around the tree. Becoming part of it….
No, he thought. I wouldn’t give
them the satisfaction. Imagining the apathetic, unsurprised look on his classmates
faces as they heard the news. His girlfriend having to fake grief in front of
his parents as she rolled her eyes when they weren’t looking. Wishing that she
was with the asshole that she was cheating on him with. If she was unhappy why didn’t
she just say so? No, fuck that. He would not end as a tragedy.
Thoughts of this nature always came
about when he was here. He wondered why that was. Why themes of morbidity
always resonated with him near the tree. He stared at the blood his knuckles
had left on the bark. He wanted to continue beating his fists into the wood,
but held back. A strange sensation came over him when he saw his own blood on
the bark. It was a feeling of satisfaction, of accomplishment. It didn’t feel
like him though. If he didn’t know any better, it felt like it was coming from
the tree. Like a heartbeat trying to sync up with his. Like it was trying to
speak to him. Like it was calling him. He had this feeling before. Many times
before, in this very spot. It was scaring him senseless, and it always had. In fact, he couldn’t think of a single good
time he had with the hunk of wood. He was a happy kid. Wasn’t he? Yes, yes he
was. Except when he came here. To his family’s old house. To the Crooked Tree.
He was drawn to it. He stared up at the mold-ridden rope. He recognized it. Not
as the beginning of a tire swing, but as the beginning of his first and only
suicide attempt. The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. He tried
to kill himself here during his senior year of high school. Why didn’t he remember
that? Why would he come back here? His senior year was one of the best of his life.
He was happy then. He…he was happy now. None of the things he was distraught
over were true. They felt true. No: his professors seemed to like him, his
girlfriend seemed to love him, and he didn’t have a roommate! Did he even
remember driving here? What day of the week it was? What month? Why did the
lies feel so real? Then it hit him. He
stared up at the crooked tree. At where his blood lay on the bark. He only had
suicidal thoughts when he was standing where he was now. He was happy the rest
of the time. Yet he kept being drawn to this place. He turned away from the
tree and started walking. The feeling of satisfaction pulling at him, yet draining
with every step. He popped some painkillers for his headaches, got in his car,
and drove away. He wanted to leave this place and never return to the crooked
tree. He managed the first one.
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