The Infinite Green

I awake beneath the trees. My head rests in a mossy green patch, my body sprawled against roots and shoots and shrooms. Glossy leaves dance above in the summery winds and the spell of pine flows through me. Whimsical. I find myself reaching up high, hoping to graze this glory, but my chest immediately constricts with the movement. I gasp a loud and distressing gasp. It is then that I notice my slick skin and pale demeanor. I stand up. Another glance at my hands tells me I am shaking. Struggling to rationalize my current predicament, I begin to run. No, I begin to run away.

I make it about thirty feet before the first flash. Pain sears behind my eyes and I falter. I panic, bracing myself on my knees I inhale and-

I am in a wheat field. Mother is there beside my little sister. I soften at the sight of her giggling and twirling in her pink gingham dress. That damned dress. I had mocked her when she first showed it to me: why would anyone want to look like an extra prissy Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz? My arms still ache from the overtimes I pulled to afford it. Three months. It took me three whole months to scrounge up enough for that dress. I had tried to act strong and mighty when I finally bestowed it on her, as older brothers tend to do, but I failed when I saw the glow of pure, youthful euphoria in her eyes. My sister continues her giggling as she skips circles around me while my mother blows bubbles, which harmlessly pop against my sister’s shoulder as she goes. Her golden locks, a brighter and better version of my own, snake ever so elegantly about her neck into a pink ribbon and bounce in rhythm along to her laughter. She tugs on my hand and I, drunken with bliss and adoration, follow her deeper into the pasture. I laugh with her. Peering over my shoulder, I fail to find my mother. I dismiss it, for my sister is tugging, no, pulling harder now. We stop at the brim of a forest, one more step and the dizzying wall of trees would swallow us whole. My sister manages to put some distance between us. I frown and look down at my hand; I do not remember her letting go of it. I raise my head to call out to her, but the pasture is now vacant. Her absence radiates through me, burning and burning. Panic stricken, I enter the infinite green.

A strangled sound leaves my mouth. My throat is sore; I have been screaming. My vision clears and I notice my fingers clawed deep within the Earth; I am on all fours now. Baffled, I stay there. How did I get on the ground? Was I not just running? I force myself off my hands and seethe as the scratches on my shins meet the cool wetness of the mud. I scowl; those were not there before. Ever more perplexing than my position is my vision. Was it a hallucination? A mirage? A memory, perhaps? I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, but it stings and I let out a hiss. A bright, warm, crimson red smears on my knuckles. The blood runs down to my wrist and across a small, pink scar, ceasing only at my elbow to where it drops onto the mossy beds below. I vaguely recall hopping a fence two summers ago. My jeans had snagged a loose wire and a broken bottle impaled my wrist. I roll my eyes. Interesting that I can remember this but not my own name. Tenderly probing at the gash on my head, I become acutely aware that it has grown quiet. My hand leaves my forehead and I feel it clamp down on my mouth. I hear something, or perhaps someone, scamper in the distance. My head swivels and I- 

My sister’s giggle tickles my ear and I follow it. I soon spot a pinkish swatch peeking from behind a bush. A smile tugs on my mouth as I approach the splash of color. I move to grab the dress and playfully reprimand her, but I touch nothing but air and tree. My smile falters. Her soft laughter echoes behind me and I whip around. Squinting, I back away from the shrubbery and pivot in a slow circle, checking every leaf, corner, and crevice. I smell something. I freeze. The scent is the same as the cheap soap and bubbles my mother blows when the weather is nice enough. My eyes dart around, the rest of my body still frozen, frantically trying to locate the source. Slowly, I manipulate my body into what my feeble mind thinks is a fighting stance: my feet positioned in sort of a lunge with balled-up fists in front to protect the face. The giggle returns, this time in the opposite direction of the soap smell. With small steps, I shuffle forward.

My breath labors even more with this last mind slap and this time, I do not dare try to move. I now sit propped against a tree trunk, its barking digging deep into my skin. I absorb everything around me and, not recognizing my surroundings, conclude that I have, indeed, wandered. My hands are still shaking when I look down and, apparently, the rest of my body has joined my upper limbs with this movement. I notice a new tear in my shirt and a rip on the hem on my already ratty jeans. My eye catches movement to my right and I risk a look over my shoulder. I still call out when the pain comes, but this time, I am ready.

I see her: my sweet, sweet sister. Her back faces me. I am surprised: it seems that eons have passed, yet the dress has not faded in the slightest. In fact, it shines brighter than before. The summer breeze returns, but neither her dress nor her hair bellows along with the leaves. I am sprinting now, running with all my limited might. Yet, she remains the same distance away. Wait, why am I running? She giggles some more. I want her to turn around. Wait, who is she again? I want to see her face. Why is her voice so familiar? I want to wrap her up and bring her home. Where is home again? I want to see her smile. My voice strains as my knees buckle and I fall, the little girl’s face still not visible.

The sun has set and the sky matches the crimson crusted beneath my nails. I continue to walk. Actually, stumbling would be more accurate. Given by the twinkle of stars appearing above, my last blackout seems to have lasted longer than the others have. With each step, I feel my energy dwindle. I run my hands over my arms, praying for a whisper of warmth. I convince myself that these visions are, in fact, hallucinations instead of flashbacks. Perhaps, it is my twisted mind’s way of coping. Did I not sleep enough these past few nights? Maybe finals are approaching and my anxious brain is purging itself of stress in this fun, pleasurable way? A clearing appears up ahead and I drool at the dream of an exit. I take a step, but the rustling behind me makes me freeze. There are footsteps nearby. Very nearby. I turn. With wide eyes, my mouth parts, preparing for a scream, but no sound emerges.

“Of course,” I think to myself, “What else would I be running from? Whom do I fear the most?”

The boy slouches slightly. He is tall and lanky and dons a mop of messy, blonde curls. He is not at all muscular, appearing to have never lifted anything above a few pounds in his life. I stare at the boy and the boy stares right back. My hands shake with such violence that I ball them into fists once more. I hold my breath to try to smother my fear, but the shaking worsens. Maintaining eye contact, the boy steps forward, closing the gap between us. I am, yet again, frozen in shock, so when he places one hand on my collar, I stay rooted to the spot. On his left wrist is a three-inch scar that, judging by its pinkish demeanor, appears about two years old. His expression remains the same even as he slowly rotates my own arm, revealing an identical mark. My lip quivers. He smells of cheap soap. He, no, It locks its other hand onto my side. On its wrist, tied ever so elegantly, is a strip of fabric: pastel pink and gingham. My mouth shapes the word “no”, but alas, no sound. The boy smiles at me. A slow and toothy smile. This comforts me, for this is the one thing that is not mine. My eyes rise to its once more. The grin widens. I cling to this as the dark envelops me. That wretched smile and the faint whispers of giggling in the distance.