Punch Drunk

I spread my soft red tartan blanket on the ground and take a seat. Twigs crack beneath me, but nothing sharp punctures me and I am comfortable where I sit.

I close my eyes, feel the warmth on my skin, and deeply breathe in the scent of pine. This forest is my playground, my sanctuary, my escape; in my 24 years, I have been here alone, or with a sibling for the last 21. I have an affinity with it, it is a part of me, I belong here, I become one with the trees and flowers until I lose myself, by the river I have walked the distance of and returned more times than I can count.

I know its route with my eyes closed its map ingrained in my mind. Sometimes I feel I become one with the trees and their foliage, its roots running through me, the true contents of my veins along with the water flowing through my body even though I haven’t had a sip of it.

I remove my shoes and walk, barefoot, connecting to the earth through my skin, until I reach the water. Gingerly, I step onto the rocks, and bend to touch the water. I don’t care that my flowing, summer dress is now wet, I drizzle the coolness of the spring across my skin, over my bruised arms, I lift my dress and do the same with my battered legs, revelling in the feel of the drops as they bring up goosebumps I enjoy in the sizzling heat.

It’s a touch I relish more than his, so I gather more water in my painful hands and bring it to the face I used them to protect, letting it nourish and refresh the parts of me still bleeding, burning and inflamed; the parts of me I do my best to obscure, then I scoop up more water and do my best to allow it to trickle down my back.

I wash the blood away with my blame for why he is like this, but somehow, it all comes back to me; why did I say anything when I knew it would only annoy him? Why didn’t I just do what he asked the first time, without any of the backchat? Is it really his fault if I provoke him?

The searing heat makes me wish I could immerse my entire body beneath the water. The world always falls away when I am in my special place, it’s my corner of the world, where I come to shelter from the world, from my life, from my marriage. I’m infinitely happy here, the opposite of what I feel behind his front door, without him, with no-one, just the deer, the rabbits, and other fauna.

My cold husband has no place where the taste of honeysuckle in the air follows its sweet scent. I can wash away the metallic taste of blood, and I run wet hands through my hair until damp tendrils curl around my sullied and defiled face.

His fists of concrete can’t shatter this feeling. Sated and stronger, I walk back to my blanket, feeling the earth beneath my feet, lay on my back so I can watch the soothing blue sky turn pink, and the luscious green tree tips touch it. Breathing in the beauty around me, I sigh deeply and close the eyes he coloured black.

As I drift off, I dream my once vibrant self is growing from the earth, a part of the beauty around me, and I am happily at peace. There are no fists to pummel me, no boots to ‘kick sense into me,’ as he so often warns. But here, here I’m free; free of the fear of displeasing him, for he is in a place that looks and feels nothing like this. He is in decimated woods, no luscious green leaves like the forest I emanate from.

He comes from the ice. The burned branches expelled from once great oaks are barren, charred at their core, but frozen with icicles. The earth where he grew is scorched, and the air is choking with frosty smoke. There is no nourishment where he once stood. His woods are dark, and the sky is full of icy, storming rain. I have no place in this cold land, where I fall, graze, and cut myself with every step I take.

As I fall to the perilous ground, I at once become entangled in baneful bramble, pulling me lower and lower, until I’m trapped in it. Then I feel the cold wind blow over me, and I feel his chill before I see him. He takes a small log from near my foot and uses it to begin beating me about my head. But no matter how many blows he delivers, no matter how much brute force he uses, I will not die.

In frustration, he changes tack and decides to use the log to try to crush my windpipe. But just like that, as he tries to take my last breath, I grow stronger and extricate myself from his brushwood as he uses all his force to try to end me.

But I rise, I free myself of him and his stark woods, and I float to the sky, where I am absorbed by the darkness, and suddenly, beams of light shoot forth; then rainbows spread as far as the eye can see. The air is cleansed with the musky scent of vanilla and berries, and what was once dried up now flowed freely, cascading about his feet.

And that was when every tree sprouted beautiful, luscious, verdant leaves. Animals came out of hiding as they claimed their new forest, pairs of rabbits, foxes, deer, and squirrels ventured into the open, and the sun shone warmth on one and all. He was left with no choice but to set down the log, lay down on the softer ground, and go to sleep as she shone her warmth and melted his cold heart.