Sap and Sinew
Beneath the creaking tree, memory and inheritance twist together until neither can be untangled.
I’m standing beneath that tree, the full moon’s rays piercing through the twisting branches, the barbed leaves, and the moaning, creaking trunk. Every inch of it bleeds red. I track the trunk down, watching the wood shift, knot, and splinter. It drips red sap so thick and constant it could be sweating blood. I watch it all the way to its roots, roiling beneath the earth like something alive and burrowing, desperate for a latch. Then I see my hands. Nearly blending in with the ground behind, as dark as night, and reeking like pure rot. The colour seems to move up my arms, but then I’m distracted, at my feet, there’s a fresh patch of earth, the chunky black dirt swallowing the moonlight. There’s something buried there, and I killed it. I’m sure of it. The wind bites hard, right through me. The tree then groans and stretches, growing impossibly large, looming over me and swallowing the sky. The darkness fills my being, and then I blink and wake up, sitting in a pool of my own sweat.
“And when did you start having these dreams?”
“Nightmares.” My eyes focus on the doc.
“Nightmares, sorry.”
“I think the first one was a few months after I moved away for the first time, at eighteen. I was in a shoebox of a place, eating apples and stale bread, ‘cause they had that for free in my college front hall. I’d always make a point to leave class through the front doors so I could grab dinner.” I pause to take a breath and watch the ‘dream-therapist’ scribble something personal. I shift on the couch slightly, trying to believe that this person isn’t just taking my money while writing their shopping list.
“I think everything was normal before going to bed, but it was so long ago I can’t fully remember.” I chuckle to myself, picturing that apartment. “You know I didn’t even have a bed frame? Just bare mattress and a pillow from home.” I pause, lost in the memory. “Anyway, it was the same. The tree, the dirt, the cold. I don’t think I turned the lights off for a week after the first time.”
“And how long ago was that?” they ask, not looking at me.
“Must have been… eleven years or so ago now, 2013.” I take a deep breath and sit up, swinging my legs over and planting them on the floor. I clasp my hands and look into the middle distance. “Around the same time my dad died. I remember ‘cause I had to go home, for the funeral, y’know.” The therapist nods.
“And I tried to get that month's rent back from the stingy landlord, citing that I wouldn’t be there for that month, but he wouldn’t budge no matter how much I asked. I even said it’s what my dad would’ve wanted, trying to guilt-trip him, but still no dice.” They write something down again, like me talking about that early apartment is the key to the whole thing.
“It didn’t just happen in that apartment, you understand,” I say. They nod but don’t stop writing. Eventually they look up at me, their big round glasses reflecting the fiery sunset, and I can’t see their eyes.
“So, you’ve had this dream about the same tree every night for the past eleven years? That must take a toll.”
“No, not every night. Some nights I don’t dream, I think the longest stretch was two weeks or around there. But when I don’t dream of it, I don’t dream at all. And I know, I know, people say you always dream but you don’t remember them, well I’m the exception. I requested a sleep study, couple years back. They monitored my brain activity every night. On the nights I had the nightmare, they said it spikes, as though I wasn’t even asleep. On the nights I didn’t? Nothing. Like a coma.”
They sit in silence for a moment. A car runs by outside.
“That’s not to say it hasn’t been rough, though. Waking up a couple times a week with my heart pounding out of my chest, the sweat soaking the bed so badly I have to change the sheets in the middle of the night. I’ve learned to keep a spare set in my bedside table.” I wave my hand, like shooing a fly.
“And I’ve tried all the pills, and the syrups, and the concoctions, and the candles, and the hypnosis, and the hospitals, and the shamans, and the prayer, and…” I breathe in sharply, and look up at the therapist, my eyes feeling like lead weights.
“Basically, you’re my last hope, doc. After all you’ve written, what can you tell me?” They take a moment to collect themselves, gently reaching up to take their glasses off and folding them in their lap.
“First, let me say how sympathetic I am. I can’t imagine how difficult it is to be in your position. Second, I’m sorry, but at this time I can’t recommend anything specific. I’d like to see you again to discuss your nightmare more and how it might be related to something in your past. Typically, any dreams we have are messages or memories from our subconscious. The fact that this keeps coming back to you, without any discernible pattern…”
They check their notes again and shake their head. “I’m sorry I can’t do more. For now, please think more about anything that could be causing the nightmare, some anxiety or trauma in your past is the most likely.” They stand and smile, ushering me out.
“Uh huh, for sure doc.” I don’t smile back. I grab my coat and just clear the threshold when the door shuts behind me. I approach the front door when a tiny man behind the receptionist’s desk peers over and exclaims, “Sir! Don’t you want to leave your details for the next appointment?” Without stopping, I step out into the twilight and don’t look back.
I flick my collar up against the wet wind. Striding up the steep hill, I shiver. My hands won’t stop shaking, exposed to the rainy dusk and the raw memory of recounting my nightly horror. My gut tightens as I realize they can’t help me, nobody can. That was such a waste of time and money, my dreams are just… nothing, they don’t mean anything, it’s a disease to be cured, and it won’t be cured in that office. What kind of doctor's office has throw pillows anyway. I walk back to my apartment, dodging puddles along the way. It’s dark by the time I walk in. I hang my coat up, flick my boots on the mat and grab a beer. The crowd of empty bottles grows until it’s half past three in the morning. A flash of red across my eyelids startles me awake. Just passing headlights. I rub my eyes, manage to turn the TV off and, after two attempts, stumble into bed. The roar of cars on the highway lulls me to sleep within moments.
I wake up the next morning, thankful for a dreamless sleep. With bleary eyes, I step into the shower and let the warmth run over me. I stand there for a few moments with my head empty, just feeling the warm water. When I open my eyes, I stumble back, gasp, and choke on water. The water running over me is blood. It stains the tiled walls and floor. I can feel the stickiness between my fingers and in my hair. I double over, coughing onto the shower floor. When I get my breathing under control again, I slowly open my eyes, my body shaking. Now the water is just water. No signs of red stains or anything. I pinch my fingers together, testing to see if they’re sticky. Nothing. I turn off the shower and stare at it like it’ll explode.
I miss a meeting at work, not because I forgot, but because I wasn’t sure what day it was. Later, in the break room, I knock over coffee grounds and just stand there watching them spread across the counter. Dark, clotted, too close to the dirt from the dream. Someone asks if I’m okay. I tell them it’s fine, but I don’t remember cleaning it up. I’ve barely sat down at my desk when I leap up again. I stare at my fingernails, sure that, for a moment, they were filthy with black dirt.
That night, I’m driving home, and a shadow seems to fall over my car in the afternoon sun. Branches roam over me, getting thicker and darker until my whole car is shrouded in darkness. Then, as soon as it appeared, it was gone.
Early the next morning, I’m woken by a persistent knocking at the door. I slide out of bed and open the door to my neighbour's wide eyes.
“Are you ok?” they ask, as though surprised to see me lucid.
“Well, I haven’t really been sleeping well,” I admit.
“I’ll say!” I look at them quizzically. Their eyes move down my clothes. I follow their gaze and realize that there are wet grass stains on my pajama pants. I stare, uncomprehending.
“I saw you, I even yelled to you but I guess you were sleepwalking? Or sleep-digging?” they say with a semi-smirk. I lift my head suddenly, it’s my turn to be surprised.
“You mean, you saw me outside, last night, and I was digging?”
“Right below that old oak tree at the end of the road. Hell of a sight.” I can only stare in shock. “Listen, if you need anything…” They trail off.
“Yeah, thanks.” I shut the door, embarrassed. I return to my bed, sitting on the end. Am I truly losing my mind?
My phone rings, startling me out of a daze. I reach out and see my sister Amy’s face, smiling at me. I flick up to answer the video call. The screen flickers blood-red for a moment before I’m greeted with a view of her speckled ceiling.
“Hello?” I say, gruffer than intended.
“Hi! One sec, I’m just grab-” Her voice sounds far away and the rest is unintelligible. I sit there, staring at her ceiling for a few moments, until her slim, pointed face comes into view.
“Hi! Oh my god, you look terrible! What happened?” she exclaims.
“Thanks so much, you look wonderful.” I retort. She snorts. “My nightmares have been getting worse. Well, not the nightmares specifically.”
“Ok cryptic, what does that mean?” I sigh.
“It means that I’ve started hallucinating. I don’t know if it’s from lack of sleep or what but it’s getting stronger.” She sits in silence, looking at me.
“Oy. I’m sorry. What about that therapist I linked you to? The one for dreams?”
“Yeah, I saw her, she couldn’t help.”
“Did you actually try? Or did you just email her and decided to be stupid?”
“I went!” I say defensively. “I had a session with her, she said she didn’t know how to help me. Waste of money,” I grumble.
“Ok, maybe you need a change of scenery? Maybe it’s that apartment that’s getting you down. You should come up here with Angie and me.”
“I can’t take the time off work, you know that.”
“A weekend then. This Friday, after work, drive up. I’ll stay up and welcome you.” She lifts an eyebrow, as if saying, ‘I know you don’t have an excuse, you don’t do anything’.
“Fine,” I say, then add, “Thank you.” She smiles wide.
“You’re welcome,” she says like a kid who just handed you a mud pie.
My eyelids and limbs feel extra heavy on the road trip up to her house. The hours crawl by as the skyscrapers make way for the suburbs, that make way for the trees, that make way for the dirt roads and fallen leaves. My headlights illuminate Amy yawning and stretching, sitting in a rocking chair on her wooden porch, a half-empty bottle of wine on the floor next to her. I step out of my car, grab my bag from the backseat, and walk into her awaiting arms.
“Hi. I missed you,” she says into my shoulder.
“I missed you too. Were you asleep?” We separate and walk towards the house.
“Only a little, no biggie.”
“You’re not worried about some random person coming by while you’re unconscious?”
“Honey, every direction you look in is my land. Nobody steps foot here that I don’t want.” She smiles at me and leads me to the guest room. After another hug goodnight, I fall into bed and sleep more soundly than I have in years.
I wake to a late-morning sun streaming through the thin drapes, and birdsong rings faintly outside. The smell of breakfast makes me rise and walk to the kitchen. Angela stands at the stove, stirring eggs, and Amy cradles her steaming coffee, standing at the island.
“Morning, both,” the low rumble of my voice startles me slightly.
“Good morning!” Angela replies, “How did you sleep?”
“Really well, actually. Totally dreamless.”
“Is that a good thing? Shouldn’t you be confronting your demons or whatever?” Amy butts in.
“And how do I confront a nightmare?” I gave her a look. She just looks at me and sips her coffee.
“Anyway…” Angela comes over and places a plate with eggs in front of me. “Try not to think about it while you’re here, just relax. And if you want to help me out with the horses, you’re more than welcome to.”
“I think I’d like that, thanks.” I smile warmly at them and dive into my eggs.
Later on, I’m grabbing a couple blankets from the storage room. The late fall weather brought a chill throughout the house. I reach up to grab a series of plastic crates from the top shelf, lifting them down to peer inside. A thin curtain of dust falls with them. I peel the lid off the top one and my heart rate spikes. A menacing face carved into a plastic pumpkin stares back at me, ringed by small bats on a string. I catch my breath and put the lid back on a bit harder than I need to. Opening the next box, I’m more hesitant, waiting for anything to jump out at me. Instead, there’s a series of thick books, each having a different pattern and size to the last. I bend down, struggling to pull the first one. When it springs free, it opens in my lap and I see… myself. A photo of me around five, grinning between Amy, Mom, and Dad.
“Hey, what’s taking so long?” Amy's face appears from around the door frame. “Oh, yeah, I forgot we had those.” She sees the boxes around me and, moving to the one on the left, she pulls two large blankets from it. “C’mon, do you want to chill or do you want to look at old photos?”
“I… didn’t know you had these,” I say quietly. “I thought they burned.” She stops, puts the blankets on the floor and crouches down next to me.
“Some did, these were in a lockbox that Mom didn’t want anymore. She asked me to hold onto them.” I flip through the pages, smiling.
“Remember this one?” I point to a photo of both of us with our hands outstretched, feeding a baby ostrich.
“Yeah, the petting zoo,” she smiles warmly at the memory. “Look, let's go through these without crouching in a dark storage room.” I nod, and carry the box to the living room.
“Look at this one! Mom and Dad at their wedding.” They’re both looking at the camera, smiles so wide they barely fit in frame.
“So cut-” The photo below it makes my entire body shake. I put down the book I’m holding with trembling hands. “C-can I see that?” I stammer, reaching for the book she’s holding.
“Woah, you ok? What’s up?”
“Please!! The book!” I yell, desperate.
“Ok, ok.” She hands it over with big eyes. Below the wedding picture is a picture of my father. He’s wearing a red gingham shirt, smiling wide, and… standing before the same tree. The exact tree. The knots, the wood, the way it twists. It’s not red but it’s the exact tree, I’m sure of it.
“What is this picture?” I say, my very breath shaking. Amy leans over, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“That’s Dad… in front of Gramps’s tree.” Her voice tries to be reassuring. “Remember, that was Dad’s favourite tree, he told us-”
“Grandpa planted it for us to play beneath,” I say, finishing the story I had blocked from my memory. “Amy, this is the tree. The same tree from my nightmares. I- I can’t believe it’s real.” Now it’s her turn to look rattled.
“You never recognized it?” she says, shocked.
“No! Of course not, I would have said something! Why the fuck have I been dreaming about Dad’s tree?” She takes the photo from me and flips it over.
“No date. It’s definitely before the accident, look he’s standing straight.” Memories I had unknowingly suppressed came rushing back. I was sixteen. Dad came home with a dented car. He had hit a deer. He suffered a sprained neck, concussion, and the front of the car was dented and bloody. He deteriorated from there over the next two years, losing muscle control and brain function.
“How did I forget all that? I can’t really remember anything before I left, just a few months before he passed.”
“I’m not sure but I remember you flying back for the funeral. Remember, I called you the morning after we found him? I remember thinking you looked like you hadn’t slept, which was weird because you didn’t know it happened yet, so why did you lose sleep?”
“I… yeah, I don’t know.” An itch in the back of my memory bothered me. Why was so much of this time of my life missing? I stared at the photo a while longer, tuning out the rest of the world. My father, looking proud. Standing with one hand on a significant bulge in the light wood of the trunk. That red shirt, buttoned to the top and his eyes shining.
On Sunday night, I pack up and say goodbye to Amy and Angela, thanking them for a great time away. The photo of my father burns a hole in the pocket of my jeans the whole ride home.
I try to sleep, but my sheets feel like needles. I toss and turn, unable to even close my eyes. I sigh and roll over to take the photo of Dad and that tree from my bedside table. The small nightlight I keep on casts enough light to see it. Why this tree? Why couldn’t I remember the last years of Dad’s life? Is my nightmare keeping me from remembering, or vice versa? I groan with the realization that I can’t answer these questions on my own. I make a mental reminder to call that therapist’s office back in the morning, put the photo down, and turn over again. Somehow, I fall asleep. The nightmare begins again.
The red, creaking trunk looks down at me. The knots grind and take a different shape. They look almost… like dad. My very cells tremble. The knots that make up my dad’s face are crying red sap, mouths opening slowly like the skin of the tree is splitting. Then a yell, an ear-piercing shriek, comes from the openings. I cover my ears with my hands, showering my head with dirt. The scream doesn’t fade or dull until I claw at my ears and head and rip my blanket off my head. I half-roll, half-fall out of bed and scramble to the corner, my knees crushing my heaving chest.
“And I stayed there until the sun came up.” The therapist looks at me, past their round glasses, with barely contained shock.
“And you’ve never had this version of the dream before?”
“No, never. Only after I found the photo.” It sits between us, face down on the table.
“So, what if the tree is your subconscious memory of your father? Your brain trying to remind you of what you lost. Often, in therapy, we have to return to that original image to get to the source.”
“I… have to go back to the tree?” I can see my childhood home in my mind and distantly, on the fuzzy edges of memory, the tree. I know exactly where it is. I then realize the doc has been talking.
“…to return mentally might even be helpful.” They look at me, expectantly.
“I can’t say I’m excited by the idea.”
“I understand, but sometimes the places we least want to visit are the places that give us the answers.” The cream-coloured office is silent for a while. I sink deeper into the couch at the thought of returning to my childhood home, to the thing that has plagued my nights for more than a decade. A shiver runs through my body when the silence is broken by the tapping of branches on the window.
“Here’s what we can do,” the therapist says, “because we’re almost out of time today, let’s set up another meeting, and if you choose to revisit it, keep notes.” I observe them for longer than a moment, the round glasses and shoulder-length hair complimenting each other. I can see nothing but sincerity, and I grin, a warmth spreading through my cheeks.
“Thanks doc, for sure.” I take my leave into the cold sunset outside.
A few days later, I find myself driving back up the same roads I took to see Amy, but now there’s a thin blanket of snow covering everything but the tarmac. It’s like I’m driving through an old photograph, everything around me is black and white. The dark brown edges of the leaves poke out of the snow making it look like a battlefield, small trenches and hills pocket the landscape.
Eventually, after my car smells like fast food and the sky has turned the kind of darkness you can only get in the countryside, I turn off and drive down the familiar road. I’m flooded with memories of our family piling into the car for holidays, going out to eat, taking trips. We each had our seats, Dad drove, Mom was the MC, and Amy and I took turns needling each other in the backseat. Sometimes Dad wouldn’t have the patience for it so he’d pull over, take a large plane of cardboard from the trunk, and place it between us. Like we were in a zoo and just seeing the other made us aggressive.
Then, slowly, my headlights starting from below and moving up, it came into view. The track-treaded snowy road ends at what used to be my home. The blackened mess of wood and iron collapsed within itself from the roof, taking half the upper level and some lower level with it. It makes the whole house look like a half-crumpled skull. The entire front was black, spreading out from the hole, tarnishing the wood and windows. I crawl the car forward, tires squeaking to a stop in front of the house. It seemed to sag, shoulders hunched over. I exit the car, never taking my eyes off it. The bright headlights reveal that the porch’s roof has fallen in, making the walkway to the front door impassable. I take out my phone, turning on the flashlight. The shadows grow and change as I walk around the husk of the building.
Looking at the remains of the blaze, I remember my mother calling me, sobbing. She had fallen asleep with a cigarette in her mouth. The cops and firefighters think that it must have fallen and spread from there. She was only woken by a coughing fit of thick smoke on every wall. The living room is unrecognizable. There’s broken furniture and collapsed walls. I have to step over splintered wood and piles of insulation. Where the ceiling has collapsed, the floor looks like the static between TV channels, thick ash mixed with fresh snow. I shimmy past the debris. The wide door frame into the dining room is still standing, even though the plaster and wallpaper have crumbled away. The ceiling is intact here, so instead of ash, I’m wading through dust. My flashlight is pointed down at my feet; I’m trying not to trip on anything. When I finally raise it, my dead father’s face stares back at me. I drop my phone in surprise.
His face takes up my vision, lit from below by the fallen light. His skin is split, canyons of red viscera, pocketed with brown scabs. His hair and eyebrows are wild, sprouting outwards like thick brambles. He has huge gaps in his teeth, and the ones that were there were a deep brown, all the way down to his semi-exposed roots. On his nose, a chunk is taken off, like the Sphinx, but there’s dead flesh instead of rock. Then his eyes. Wild, bloodshot, there isn’t a trace of white in them. They’re the same shade, I realize with a start, as the tree.
I’m trying to twist myself back, away from the monster with my dad’s face, but I can’t move. His hands, the same red festered flesh, grip my arms, pining me in place. I look quickly from his hands to his face and back again, my throat closed, unable to yell. A part of my brain registers that I can see him in clear detail, but I can also see through him, out of the corner of my eye, like he’s not fully realized when I’m not focused. His mouth opens, and a putrid smell comes out, like garbage sitting in fifty degree heat.
“I need your help. You gotta be quiet!” his voice whispers, plain as day. It sounds just like I remember, not matching the form I see. “C’mon.” With unnatural strength, he drags me by the upper arm, pulling me towards the backyard. My feet dig into the floor, trying to resist, with no result. I make tracks in the dust and ash as we move through the destroyed kitchen, towards the twisted, melted metal of the backdoor. The plastic screen has been incinerated, and the surrounding metal frame is scorched and bent. Still, Dad pulls it aside like it’s nothing. He pulls me out into the chill, seemingly unaffected by the change in temperature. The moonlight faintly illuminates the ground outside. I retch as I grip his hand, trying to move his fingers. Still, he hauls me with him around to the side of the house. My heart jumps again, startled, as I see the side of the house is intact and white again. Dad throws me in front of a blue tarp, shoved against the house. I’m frozen in fear watching him remove the tarp in one smooth movement. A body lies there, eyes fixed on the black sky. I don’t recognize the face. He wears vibrant blue jeans and a forest green jacket, both are stained with a spattering of blood.
“Your old man is too weak right now, grab the shoulders.” He rubs his neck like he’s massaging an injury before bending down to grab the dead man’s legs. I can only stare, transfixed, trying to comprehend the scene in front of me. “Son! Grab the shoulders!” he yells, voice straining. My body jolts as I bend down to help my dead father carry a dead body. As my hands touch the unknown man’s cold shoulders, something feels familiar. Dad starts dragging the corpse through the snow and I realize the legs are twisted at unnatural angles, like they’re broken. The chest is caved in, the side of his torso is dented like a cannonball was shot at it. As Dad turns with the body’s legs, my eyes snap to a light behind him. The moonlight is stronger there, casting a stark spotlight over one spot. A tree, glistening red, right on the edge of the forest. My brain snaps, my feet on autopilot. I’m still hunched over, hands gripping the cold shoulders, feet shuffling through the thin snow. Dad is slowly but surely moving towards that tree.
The knotted wood gets closer, the shifting bark splitting and roiling, the sap colouring the snow and blending in with Dad’s skin. The roots bubble beneath the dirt, throwing mud and snow around. They reach out and pull back, like the whole tree is eager to taste the corpse. I’m hypnotized by the mass of wood in front of me. The cascade of dripping red sap is highlighted by the moonlight. It's bigger and vaster than I had ever dreamed, the enormous trunk supporting the jungle of bramble and barbed leaves that I know are sharp as knives. Dad drops the twisted legs right at the base. He reaches out a hand to the tree, supporting himself. He seems unaffected by the wood shifting beneath his hand as he catches his breath. I stare at him, and realize that his head has begun to bleed; fresh blood drips down his face. He takes a deep breath. When he turns to me, I can see the fresh rivers of blood mixing with tears.
“Here.” He points to the black ground. “I’m too weak, you have to do it.” I can only stare at him, at the single patch of ground that has stilled around the tree’s roots.
“Please, son.” Fresh tears spring from his eyes, “Help your old man fix a mistake.” My movements don’t feel like my own when I fall to my knees and plunge my hands into the cold earth. Although it was boiling a moment ago, I strain to pull it apart. Chunks of cold turf and mud come out in my hands, coating my nails, my skin, my forearms, and turning my skin black. I’m dimly aware of the transparent form of my father standing over me and sobbing.
“You know I didn’t mean to. How could I have meant to do this, it was an accident!” He’s yelling and crying now, anger and sadness mixing within him. “I didn’t see him! Who walks on the road in this darkness!” He lets out a racking cough, thick red sap spewing over the ground.
I can do nothing but dig. My hands are numb before my nails catch on something hard. I freeze and pull back. A sliver of white bone juts through the blackness. I dive back in, digging more frantically, pushing earth away from a skeleton. The bones lie there, spread out, as though the body was tossed and forgotten. Patches of blood-stained faded blue jeans and a green jacket lie on the bones like they melted and fused. The skull lies on its side, still half-buried. I jerk to a stop when I feel my father's hand on my shoulder. He looks like himself again, young and healthy, although there is still dried blood on his forehead. He wears the same red gingham shirt as the photo. Suddenly, I realize I’m wearing the same pajamas from when I was 16.
“This has to be our little secret, okay? They’ll take me away from you if you tell anyone.”
“What about the car?” The words flow out of me like muscle memory, uncontrollable.
“We’ll tell everyone it was a deer. Or better yet, just forget it ever happened.” His words echo in my head, reverberating around my mind and latching on. My mind and my body suddenly collapse with exhaustion. As the night sky expands and takes over my vision, the last thing I see is my father making the same expression from the photo, with the tree behind him.
I slowly open my eyes and blink at the blinding landscape. The sun reflects off the snow, shining right into my eyes. I prop myself up on one elbow until my eyes can adjust. Once I can see again, my memory from the night floods back, and I spring to my feet, causing a rush of blood to my head. I stumble, nearly falling into an open, shallow pit. There are piles of mixed snow and dirt surrounding it, and in the middle, lies the bones with the same faded jeans and jacket. I let out a soft yelp and stumble back from it, falling on my ass. The tree looms over me, but it looks… normal. It’s still a grotesque tree, but there are no leaves, the trunk is average, and it’s as brown as can be. I slowly look around, a part of me expecting to see my father somewhere, but there’s nothing. Even his footprints in the snow are gone. There’s only mine, coming from the ruined house to here. I don’t know how long I sit there, waiting for something to happen. Eventually, after the sun is high in the sky, I stand and walk back to the house. My phone sits in the dust of the dining room, exactly where I dropped it. Again, only my footprints appear in the dust.
I wait there until the cops come. I explain my story, show them the bones, explain my story again, and only after they take my fingerprints and contact info am I allowed to drive back home.
“Don’t leave town, we may have more questions for you,” says one officer as I get in my car. I make it back to my bed without incident, falling asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. That night, I dream of soaring along a beautiful beach.
After a year of therapy, I’m staying with Amy and Angela in their guest room while I recover. At the request of my therapist, I have a puppy so that I ‘have something to take care of while taking care of myself’. He’s called Chance. I was against the idea at first, but the little guy has grown on me. Life feels brighter, and I have my morning routine. We get up, I feed Chance puppy chow and make a coffee for myself, and we sit in the warm, bright living room together, looking out at the landscape. My cup warms my hands as Chance chews on a toy. My eyes are closed, savouring my coffee, when Chance stops, drops the toy and starts barking furiously at the window. I sit up, put my coffee down and try to see what he sees. My heart throbs, heavy in my chest, as every muscle snaps tight. There, far at the edge of the forest, stands a knotted tree, redder than the rest.