Birch Tree

Warning: This story contains mentioned abuse and gore.

The thick glass separates me from everything else. There is a window between me and everything outside the train. If I took one step outside it, I would reach salvation. I would be able to feel pain as something more than the decay of my heart. But I am a coward, and I am much too scared to even grant myself the joys of shaking off the past from my shoulders. I let it follow me, drag me and pin me down to the forest floor and beat me, eyes brimming with tears, my hands covered in thick, dark blood.

--- 

Charlotte:

I can still see it even though the train has moved. I vaguely hear passengers move about, rustling in their seats, fabric rubbing against the leather seats. Someone comments on the golden mustard fields we're passing. Someone's hand scrapes against the window, and it reminds me of my car, screeching to a halt as I turn around the corner, skidding across the floor. "It's so pretty," I hear a girl's voice say. "It looks like liquid sunlight on the Earth."

That is not what the window shows me anymore, but it is ingrained in my head, refusing to leave. There's a new mark on the tree. A new line, a new curve. I hadn't seen it there before; a weighted line is drawn around the thorny rose cut into the tree trunk. The mark feels wrong; it makes me nauseous. The bark is peeling off like tiny threads and it makes me want to punch someone, something; myself. Everything should have stayed the same, the same as when I last left a tree like that one. I can still see the freshly dug-up soil, damp and coarse at the tree's foot in the back of my head, and the image has burned itself into my memory, a scar in my brain. I see a hand lying limp, pale and wrinkled on the rich brown soil. I try to turn my head, but the memory was playing from the eyes of my mind, not my face, so it doesn't help me either way.

The journey on the train is a reminder. A flashback, a trip down memory lane. A tour into my room of regrets, everything scratched and scribbled on the wall, and the journey only forced me to keep my eyes peeled and watch. Watch as I see every piece of my unravelling, yet unable to make sense of anything.

 I always sit by the window, in this same seat, and if I focus enough, I can see my fingerprints on the glassy surface, no one else bothered to wipe it. And beyond the thick transparent barrier, I see them— everything I have done, everything I can't undo, and everything I wish I could change. I want to break the window. I want to cry. I want to cry, but the tears don't come, and nothing blurs my sight. I want to pull out my hair. Maybe tomorrow I'll find strands of my red hair lying on this seat, awaiting me. Reminding me of another failed journey—another night lost in my insanity, diving into the gaping hole in my head and hoping not to return.

--

Seven For a Secret.

I can't see any window separating us in my head. It simply does not exist.

I count the magpies flying around me. In this darkness, their glossy black feathers meld into the night, only their glinting, cunning eyes visible to mine. They're cawing. They're laughing. Laughing at me. I see a figure lying beneath me, and I feel the body in my hands. Something is flowing down my forearms, as though washing them. I try to breathe. I try to count to ten. Maybe more.

One for sorrow

Two for joy

Three for a girl

Four for a boy

Five for silver

Six for gold

Seven for a secret never to be told

Seven for a secret. Seven for a secret. I cannot move past that. My thoughts are stuck, my memories on rewind. If only I could remember what happened that night. The night I found myself pitying my predicament, the body of a dead man lying limp in my arms, his blood or perhaps even mine, running down my arms like a river of crimson. 

Something moves behind me. I hear a stifled cry, the soft gasp of air with a shrill sound wrapped in between. My head snaps back. Maybe that's how I killed him. There's a girl. In a green dress. Her pink heels have sunk into the wet mud, edges traced with rainwater. I can see the moon in the water's reflection, full and overflowing. The crows are still screaming. My eyes move upwards. The girl's palms are clamped to her mouth, white with strain. Her eyes are open wider than anyone's I've ever seen. I try to call out, but I don't remember what I was going to say. Don't tell anyone? I didn't mean to kill him? I'm sorry? But I don't remember. I don't know how I got there, but I can feel the blood in my mouth, leaking from my tongue as my teeth bit on it. There's a faint taste of metal. Then I can taste only the vomit brimming from my throat. I throw up right there. 

I bury him by the birch tree, not caring for the six feet or the stone. I embrace the rain as it washes off the blood like my sins. The train passes by on the tracks right beside me, the rumble shaking the Earth. I want to be on that train. I thought, watching it, looking at the strangers busy in their carriages, having someplace to be, not someplace to hide from. 

But now that I'm on it, I think I want to be on the tracks as the train rushes by, the vibration in my body and the cowardly fear being the last things I feel. I want to hide from my past. I want to go quickly into the night, disappear into the heavens, and let some higher power deal with the grand scheme of things. Here lay the spider, stuck in its own web of lies, the threads tinted with red.

Craving to avoid everything I know I will face someday, I'll leave everything behind. Because no one will ever cry for me when I'm gone, and I like that thought because it means my death will have no repercussions. No impact. Just a fading mark on the world, leaving no impression on anything else.

--

Knowing and Believing.

It was an accident. I know it, but I don't believe it.

But then again, it's easy for me to believe in everything else but myself. I find myself looking at my reflection in the window, trying to catch some feeling of guilt in my eyes. Trying to convince myself to turn myself in to the police, accept my crime, and be sent to rot in some prison. His skin feels cold beneath my fingers. I still can't shake the thought from my head, the vividness and detail of the scene after everything had been done, and the blurred shadows of the event. I want to scream. If only someone could tell me what happened. Maybe that girl could. But I think maybe she might be scared of me for everything I did. She's protecting her life; she's selfish. But I'm no one to talk— because so am I. Selfish.

There's a torn piece of yellow fabric in his palm, and his fists release and unclench, his breathing steady, and then gone. Everything else was black and white. His face had become white. Pale as a sheet and bleached hair. His eyes were cloudy in no time Then I only remember the tree.

The tree, and the feeling of his cold, mottled skin all over me. Sliding into my dress. Grip on my shoulder like that of a hawk, tearing my skin, scraping against my body. I want to scream, but my voice doesn't come, and my yellow dress is torn somewhere. I don't know when that happened. I turn and run.

--

I See You In Me.

No, That's Not a Good Thing.

The train comes to a standstill. Vendors flock inside, selling bright candy and grey umbrellas. People shift around in their seats, murmuring words strung together so much I couldn't make out any of it. The girl who liked the mustard fields is asleep. Her face reminds me of him. Everything reminds me of him. And then I see her, at the corner of my eye, standing there in the same green dress. Her heels are coated in brown and red. She holds my hand and pulls me out of the train. Her hand is in my hair. And I wonder why I struggle—wasn't this what I was waiting for? Then I realise it. I'm struggling for her. I'm holding on for her. Because if she kills me, she's going to have to live with the same guilt as me, not able to remember her actions but only her crime, and then see my dead face as she passes by every birch tree. No one will kill her, for no one knows me, or cares enough to take vengeance. Maybe she'll be able to fulfil my dream of colliding with a moving train. Maybe she was brave, and she'll choose to save herself from herself before she can drive the people around her any more crazy.

--

Her hands are around my neck, squeezing the air out of my throat. Then, it's there, a screw, jammed into the side of my head, pushed inwards more and more and more till I can't feel the pain. My vision blurs, dark spots dancing everywhere. As my life flashes before my eyes, the only thing I see is still him, because I had been living for so long basing off my guilt on him and his death. The last thing I see is her face, wide-eyed and confused, staring at her reflection in the blood on her hands. I feel the wet soil cover my face, and I can hear the sound of her heels rat-ta-tat-ing about the floor as she turns and flees.

Then everything is gone.

I remember now. But there is no point.

--

There is no point anymore.

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