Crepuscular

I wake, phone alarm jangling, covered in a sheen of sweat. The jagged edges of a bad dream still keenly felt, but the details fading. I hate sleeping, but somehow it always claims me for a few erratic hours before dawn. 

I sit up, take a few calming breaths, snatch up my water, turned night-metallic in the glass. I grimace at the taste. Reaching for my running clothes, I dress quickly in the lonely bedroom. 

A few moments later, I’m out the front door, affixing a wide band over my fringe and pulling the rest into a grease-scraggly ponytail.

This September morning, the cold is oppressive. It assaults my senses, creeping into my eyes, biting into my ears, my nose and chin giving into numbness. I try to ignore it and stretch my muscles; the bitterness seeps into my legs and arms. He used to say that chilly morning starts were the best, he was always happy to go for a run, something left over from his army days. My clumsy, frozen fingers fumble to find the playlist he curated for me —tracks of thumping, driving, euphoric beats to set and keep the pace.

I put in my earbuds and run, the first few vibrations on the unforgiving pavement jolting my whole body, making me gasp. But then I’m settling into my usual rhythm, trying to clear my head of all thoughts.

The streetlights are still on, their white glow illuminating a smoky mist that tucks the land into a light blanket as I pound up the hill. Everyone is still cosy in their beds. I begin my day before the world wakes up - the idea of acknowledging other people in our tight-knit fitness community or weaving around yawning dog walkers and their inquisitive pups - fills me with dread. I want to be alone - me and my music.

I get to the gate and open it, the metal stiff, cracking and squealing with icy outrage. As I click the latch, I take in my surroundings. The woodland stands shrouded in grey, beech tendrils stretching into the air, touching the purple sky. I turn on my head torch and pick my path.

Something bounds across in front of me; it stops a little farther away, bright yellow eyes piercing through the dark. The woods are a haven for muntjacs; they munch on all the new saplings, and deer-proof covers surround the trees vulnerable bodies. There was a petition making the rounds to protect the mature trees. I didn’t sign - I like to get close to the trees, one in particular. The little spindly creature turns, blending into the atmospheric background. I continue on.

I notice that the fog is thicker. My head torch reflects so much white it’s like I’m pushing through a cloud. Even though I can only see a few metres in front of me, I know these paths; I have been traversing them for years. I know where all the roots are eager to trip you up, the jutting branches that snag, and the slippery, muddy parts that never really dry out. I easily navigate all these obstacles, my feet assuredly finding their way to the ancient tree that squats at the heart of the wood.

The old oak is festooned with forgotten swings and riven with the penknives of amorous couples. I turn off my music and stroke all the roughly hewn letters making my way to the ones he carved there - WP 4 JD. Remembering the first time that we came here, dazed from our urban existence, this village was an idyll, the woods were the icing on the home-baked cake. I had told him that cutting into this lovely old tree was essentially vandalism and that only stupid, lovesick kids did it. But he grinned and took out his tiny Swiss army knife on his keyring. 

Afterwards, we kissed, and he whispered suggestively about doing it there on the ground. I was horrified that some poor, unsuspecting pensioner could come by, and witnessing our pink sweaty forms, stark against the greenery, would give them a heart attack. I gave a watery smile at this thought, wishing - not for the first time - that I had said yes then and yes to many more moments we could have spent together. Tears prick my eyes, but they don’t fall - I have done too much weeping.  

I glance up. The cold is even more vicious, and the murk is now impenetrable. Just my feet are now visible.

Then, I sense something nearby - perhaps the muntjac, but they don’t usually get so close - I try to make out something in the opacity, but it is impossible. Still, I can’t shake the conviction that something is there, just out of my reach, and it is watching me.

I listen carefully for any signs of movement but all I can hear is my heartbeat whooshing in my ears.

‘Hello?’ I shout into the void. Silence is returned. I feel unnerved, my neck hairs prickling, I need to get out of here, so I turn on my heel and start back the way I came. I can still detect something close behind me, keeping pace. I race faster, my legs pumping, and forgetting my mind map, I almost lose my footing several times, get snagged by thorns, and sting my arm on nettles.

At last, I am at the gate; with ragged breaths, I wrench it open and dart through. I pause and look behind me, my heart beating out of my chest. The fog has dissipated. There’s no one there. Still, I sprint home until my lungs are fit to burst.

The next day, I am unnerved by the encounter, but this gives way to anger in the evening. The woods were my sanctuary - they were all I had - how dare this creep try to take away my space. 

So, I set out the following day, armed with ten-year-old mace (I hadn’t carried it since we left the city). It wasn’t misty, a little cloudy, but otherwise perfectly normal. I got to the entrance at a brisk jog, and everything was as expected, dark greens and browns becoming more apparent in the early light.

I kept the music off to listen for sounds, but no rustling, deer, or menacing presence. At the foot of the timeworn trunk, I discover a singular, cut, white tuberose - my favourite flower. I always loved the smell, doused myself in its perfume daily and often bought them fresh for the house. I picked it up and turned it in my hand, stroking the delicate petals. I felt that I was not alone; dropping the stem, I scanned the area. 

‘Who’s there?’ I demand, ‘Don’t come any closer, I have mace!' The trees stare back cryptically, keeping their secrets. I sense something getting nearer, ‘Stay away!’ 

Freaking out, I grab handfuls of dry twigs, dirt and stones, hurling them pointlessly into the bracken and the brambles. ‘Fuck off!’I shriek. 

The presence seems closer, so I bolt, this time a different way, zig-zagging across pathways and taking a circuitous route to try and evade my invisible running mate, who always seems to be two steps behind. I turn my head to catch a glimpse - I think I see something there, but it’s hard to see. I scream ‘help’ and ‘fire’ - as he had taught me to do if I ever was attacked - I crash through the bracken, ending up at the gate. 

Just as soon as it had come on, the feeling was gone. Exhausted, bruised and battered by my mad dash, I limp out of the entrance onto the road. I pass an early-riser and her young collie, ‘There’s something in there,’ I whisper, ‘be careful’. She scrutinises me - a woman in a filthy, mud-smeared gym kit with leaves sticking out of her hair - as though I was mad (perhaps I am?) and giving a sharp whistle to her dog, she hurries past. 

I stopped running my route. I couldn’t contemplate going anywhere near those woods.  Speaking to my therapist, she said it could be a way of coping with bereavement - auditory and visual hallucinations were part of the process. But to her, everything I did and said was because of my grief.

Without my habitual morning routine, I slip into bad habits, returning to my bed - which welcomes me like an old friend - a toxic friend who brings out the worst in you. I lay there clicking through the pictures on my phone of him; there wasn’t enough - I should have taken more. I stare at each one in my curtain-shut room until his shapes burn into my retina. Closing my eyes, I can still blurrily perceive his bulky army-toned frame, broad lopsided smile, and those bright green eyes.

On the fourth day of my sleepless, bed-bound misery, I decided to revisit the place, not at dawn when I could imagine shadowy entities chasing me, but in the cold, harsh light of day.

I don some half-clean clothes and wander out, hoping not to see anyone as I make my way to my destination. As luck would have it, I didn’t meet a soul and soon found myself breathing in the verdant sylvan scent of an autumn day. With trepidation, I arrive at the oak. It was less imposing in the full light, just a simple tree. The flower was gone. 

Sighing with relief, I sit down to rest against the scratchy bark. My eyes snapped open - I had been dozing. Another fog had settled, and I could discern something observing me. Standing up and craning my neck, I squint through the gloom, distinguishing a large figure a few metres away, but it kept coming in and out of focus, similar to if you play with the sight on a pair of binoculars, it changed colour too, sometimes darker and then pure white. My voice had escaped me, and I was too tired to flee, so I just stared until it faded. 

On the ground, tuberoses are strewn at my feet as if they were plucked from a bouquet and discarded. This time, I gather them up and take them home. 

I visited the tree at different times during the next week, but the presence wasn’t there. If I hadn’t got evidence of the now wilted blooms languishing in a vase. I could easily believe I had dreamt everything. 

It had been six months, four days and seventeen hours since I had lost him - after I got that call that changed everything. Today would be his 40th; we had planned a little holiday to Sardinia to celebrate. We should be ice-cream sticky, with bellies full of pasta and hazy from too much sun and ill-advised day drinking. I can’t do it alone. He was my everything. I do not know who I am without him. The pain of the loss is knife-sharp. I take a swig from the vodka bottle that was my breakfast.

I sit at the table scrolling through tons of people sending their condolences on my Facebook wall, all wanting to be seen as caring - signposting to others their mawkish love - thoughts and prayers, heart emoji. I shut off the phone, none of them understand. Life hasn’t ended for them.

I chose to spend his birthday at the tree. I have been mulling it over for some time.

What if that was him? Watching me? Waiting for me?

I told my therapist, and she said it was an expression of my grief, and the flowers were just a coincidence; she wants to up my therapy sessions and thinks I’m lying to her about my coping - which I am.

I was always so certain that there wasn’t an afterlife, that you die, and that’s it. But now I’m not so sure.

I found myself at the tree as if I was waking up, I didn’t remember walking there, but I must have. In the crisp morning air, the swing ropes dangled in the breeze. I selected a log; they had been lopped and placed to make edges for the trail. But I had no need for these now. I had strayed from the path. 

I grunted with the effort, half dragging, half rolling the hefty timber to the bottom of the oak, pulling it up to lay on its end. A strong wind came out of nowhere, buffeting me and knocking over my carefully placed step. I reset it, keeping one foot on it in case the wind tried again. It howled through the trees - an eerie, desolate sound. But I had come this far; a few gusts wouldn’t stop me from what I must do. I stepped up and grasped the strongest rope.

A quiet forest called the Sea of Trees grows on calcified lava rock by the side of Mount Fuji. It is known to be haunted by yūrei. The land has gained notoriety by being where many people come to take their lives. This place would serve as my Aokigahara - my Suicide Forest.

I tug the rope free and fashion my noose, readying myself for the next bit. I think of him, how I will see him soon, that we can be together again.

The rope chafes my neck as I pull it tight, and I try to kick away the log, but I can’t move. I struggle but can’t free myself; the wind seems to cry ‘no’.

I look down through the glade’s dappled morning light, I can see something sitting on the log holding me down, but it’s obscured, like looking through a frozen window. I cry out a desperate plea that the wind absorbs. Again I hear a whispered ‘no’. I scream, shout, and rage, trying to do what I came here to do, but the weight holds me fast; my feet are heavy as if they are caked in concrete. The trees bend, supplicating themselves to the wind’s anger.

Eventually defeated, I open the rope and remove it from my neck. All at once, the wind dies down, and the forest fills with silver vapour, but I notice it’s more solid this time; it has a  tangible quality. It levitates me off the log and places me on the ground. A calmness envelopes me; reassuring arms gather me up and pull me close. I cry, tears falling down my face and into the ether. 

The fog gets lighter then it's gone. I look around; scattered amongst the green are tuberoses. They peek above ferns, pop up between rotted logs and mingle with the tall grass. An expectance fills the clearing. Then so softly that it can barely be heard is one word, ‘Live’.