Childhood Pain

I patrolled my entire house, and there was a tall man in a business suit standing in the woods, but his hair was red and his mouth was bearded. His face was clearly different from the monster I knew too well.

I asked the redhead just what he thought he was doing, trespassing on an officer's property like that. He said nothing. I pulled out my pistol to show him I wasn't in a "fucking around" mood, and he fucking laughed. He laughed at my threat.

I don't take lightly to that.

I approached him, and he backed away. So I had finally found a way to show him who's boss around here. You know what I did? I kept at it. I chased the motherfucker deep into the woods, 'cause honestly, I wasn't afraid to die. You've never seen me, have you? You've never seen the bags below my eyes or my unnaturally pale skin, the work of a woman driven mad by her inner demons. I've been on a countdown to extinction, and I wasn't gonna let some redheaded fucker get away with taunting me.

He led me deep into the woods, and eventually I began to recognize where we were. It was the path of obfuscation, the little dirt road in the middle of the forest where an awful lot of leaves fell. The trees made funny noises there.

The bastard I was chasing was walking the whole time, head tall enough for me to see despite any obstacle. He was walking backwards, making sure I could always see his bearded face. And no matter how quickly I ran, he always walked faster.

By the time we reached the end of the path, I was out of breath, just as he had planned.

At the end of the path, I stumbled upon Hell's backyard. My eyes remained on that tree, that fucking tree. But I couldn't believe my eyes.

The kids' bodies had been cleaned up sixteen years ago; the cops weren't bad enough to just leave a shitload of dead kids' remains on a tree in a forest. Yet here they were, perfectly preserved, as if they'd just died a couple hours ago. One kid's heart was even still beating, despite the branch pierced right through it.

The tree's spine seemed a little too thin, and its branches seemed a little too sharp. I didn't question any of this. I was too busy reliving everything. Everything.

I remembered the screams of my best friends as they felt impossible branches going through the backs of their skulls, sticking out of their mouths. They were muffled by its leaves. I remember one particular friend, Robert Hamford, got seven different branches. His blood fell upon us below. I was afraid of rain until I turned ten. I remembered Rachel, who had shared her lunch with me that day, wound up choking on her own eye.

And I remember the beast calling himself a man was standing tall, ushering us into this freakshow of fuckup. He patted our backs, calling us "brave" and "bright." "There's a future for you here," he said. "Come one, come all, it's a free-for-all, it's the greatest show you'll ever see!" There wasn't a hint of laughter in his voice, wasn't a tad bit of joy. This was business as usual to him. He couldn't stop blinking, 120 beats-per-minute. It created a bit of an illusion of comfort.

Now, tonight, looking at that humongous tree with the thousands of spiny, writhing branches, the deceased children of my haunted memories all pierced on its painful appearance? "Comfort" was the last illusion I was feeling.

And then I felt a warm hand on my back.

I didn't look up. Instead, I pulled out my pistol and pointed up, tilting my hand just a little bit backwards.

And then I fired.