The Harvest of Stone Seeds

(Contains: physical violence, substance abuse)

The day I consumed truth was sunny and normal for a Thursday in April. My lips, at first, lay still, stricken by that horrible sight. But that sight turned my mouth dry. So desperately dry, they began to part. No, there was no moisture keeping them sealed, keeping me safe. So they parted. And there was no going back, for that truth had already slipped into my mouth—yes, through a crevice of an opening, it had slipped into my mouth. And now, call it survival instinct, call it cowardice, all I could manage was to gulp it down. And things do not disappear once out of sight—once consumed. No, because I felt it. Black and dense, I felt it sulk through my esophagus. And once its journey was concluded, now latching to the innermost parts of my stomach, I knew—I knew it was not going to leave.

But not really, no, not really at all. For secrets can’t actually hurt you—sicken you. For they are just thoughts, feelings—they are just mental. Yes, knowing this secret, consuming this truth, foul and black as it is, I am untouched. My body is untouched.

I don’t think about it as a rule, but since you’re here, I’ll think about it once more. Like I said, the weather was normal, anticlimactic. I was visiting my mother in her retirement community, walking back to my car. I heard it before I saw it. A blinding screech and a hideous thump. So I looked up. Just a block away sat that cloud of smoke. Oh, how I wish it had stayed a cloud. Encapsulate those horrors within exhaust fumes—then my eyes would be ignorant, then my eyes would rest.

But it did not stay, it abandoned me, and I looked upon that scene alone. And I saw death’s face—not upon the body, raw and distorted on the curb—but upon the boy, clinging to the wheel. For he was just a boy, I knew this because I was his 9th grade science teacher. His name was Parker Sumter.

He did not see me, he did not see anyone. All he did was drive away, leaving the body and another cloud of smoke—smoke I knew would again forsake me.

And forgive me for writing it, the name—so vulnerable, so exposed. Forgive me for knowing it, his face—which, seeing it then, looked nothing like his face at all. Yes, looking back again, it could have even been someone else. Maybe it wasn’t him, this young, young boy, yes, maybe it wasn’t him at all. But even in this darkness, truth’s candle taunts me, it's flicker illuminating a memory. Hayrides at the Sumter Farm Harvest Festival—I was nearly a teen. Yes, I knew that truck. A sweet memory of my adolescence now repulsive to me, for I am punished by it—I am punished by this “knowing.”

I called the cops, of course I did. And the old man with dementia, known to wander neighborhood streets when left unsupervised, had died instantly. “Hit and run”—the three words that ping-ponged through the swarm of police, medical workers, and bewildered neighbors.

Lady Justice, why did you place that stone in my hand? One life had been taken, but you requested two. No, I could not. I refused to take another. But in that refusal I found no rest for the stone—so I ate it. “Yes, officer, I only heard it, and by the time I could see anything, they must’ve turned the corner.”

“Bethany?” I blinked, spotted her fumbling in the crowd. “It’s ok, mom, I’m ok.” Because that was true. I was physically ok, that was not a lie. But it dawned on me, I would have to lie—to her. It was one thing, I told myself, to compartmentalize the police into abstraction—they were apart of a system, and systems have no faces. It was easy, making them unknown. But my mom, I knew my mom. Knew her voice, the sound of her footsteps, the natural coloring of her hair. I knew her favorite scent and the first time she broke her arm. Yes, to me, she was real, there was no escaping it—her humanity. It was then, lying to a human, that I realized. I realized that my insides were no longer like hers. Though I spoke and saw and heard, eating that truth stiffened me—turned me to straw.

And I went back to that classroom every day until Parker Sumter graduated.

And I told no one.

It's been 6 years since the death of Mr. Bradshaw.

The tremors have long lifted, so has the paranoia—that constant sense of being watched, preyed upon. Surprisingly enough, I never touched liquor, numbing was not a need. It was awakening that I craved. So, drugs have been my secret aid, not often, just when the weariness of not-feeling becomes too much. I am doing okay though, I am getting better.

I do still have this dream, not every night, but most. I’ve learned to accept it, find strange companionship in it, for I have no others in this alienation. It goes like this: the sky is grey and blank, an evening in autumn. I am at the Harvest Festival, back on that hayride. This time, however, I am driving, and seated atop those hay bales are my students. I never see their faces, but somehow I just know. Suddenly, I am struck by the realization I too am just a kid. So I turn to them and whisper, “Can you keep a secret?” We all giggle and I keep driving—driving upon that dirt road. But I am just a kid, and I don’t know how to drive! In my panic, I scream—but no sound comes, for my mouth is filled with hay. I try turning my head, a warning to the others, but my muscles have locked. I cannot control the truck, and we crash—sometimes into a tree, sometimes a ditch. And these children, they all die. I know this because I never do. I lay on my side, tossed somewhere on that dirt road, and all I can do is watch—for I am just a scarecrow.