After swallowing
the last gulps, he set down the empty can on the corner of the coffee
table. The hoped for solace that drink normally brought seemed to evade
him on this night and exhaustion remained, yet sleep seemed to reside only on
some far distant shore. The silent
darkness of the house that used to be a home only served to allow the persistent
voices in his head to scream louder, eventually driving him out the front door
and into the night. How long he stood next to the tree, barefoot in the
grass, he had no idea. The other houses that lined both sides of the street
were dark and all the world seemed to be asleep in peace. All was quiet
except the low hum of electricity as it traveled through the wires to feed the glowing
street lights.
His right hand was
leaning on the knob end of a baseball bat as if an old man in need of a cane.
The thought of why had he carried this outside flashed through his mind and was
just as quickly gone. It was the very bat she had placed beside the front
door in case she should ever have a need of a weapon close at hand. He grabbed the handle with
both hands, he had always enjoyed the feel of a wooden bat in his hands and the
weight just felt right. His grip fit perfectly
as his fingers curled around the handle. Holding the bat filled him with
a dangerous sense of strength and power.
He could feel his
heart beating louder and louder in his ears, his blood coursing through his
veins as surges of energy careened through his body as his muscles began to
tense. The world around him slowly faded away from view and before him
stood only the tree. The round trunk
stretched upwards anchored by firm roots hidden deeply within the ground. Branches grew outwards in what appeared to be
many haphazard directions, most branches alive with leaves, a few dead and dry. The tree was life, a voluminous text telling
a story and detailing each experience and dream along the way, each branch a
turning point in his life. The leaves
held tight the emotions that accompanied the events of each memory that was
remembered. The lifeless branches
revealed little as the memories of these experiences had faded from his mind
over the years. As he stared up into the
tree's canopy each branch morphed into distinct memories of a life built on
hope for the future and then wholly lost as fate seemed to conspire against the
desires of his heart.
The frozen silence
of the night was shattered by a loud crack as the wooden bat struck the tree
trunk. He did not even realize that he had swung the bat, but as each
memory blazed before his eyes he swung the bat over and over. The tree quivered
only slightly with each blow, standing strong and resilient against the vicious
onslaught. Each swing was fueled by grief
and rage over what was lost, never to return. Memories flashed hot, the bat hurtled through
the air against wood again and again, until his
shoulders began to ache. The quiet was shattered by the crack of wood on wood as the bat slowly began to splinter from the force of the repeated blows against the tree. He continued unrelenting as the fury
rose inside him like a volcanic eruption long held in check within the depths of the earth, driving
him past the limits of exhaustion.
The cascade of
blows finally began to slow as his strength waned, at last he stood gasping for
breath, head down, the bat lying motionless in the grass at the bottom of the
trunk. The tree was silent before him
almost mocking his unsuccessful and feeble efforts at destruction. He eventually fell to his knees and finally
came to a sitting position with his back against the very trunk that had noiselessly
absorbed blow after blow of his merciless rage and anguish driven attack. He sat soundlessly through the remainder of
the night, his body physically shattered; the fatigue blunted the pain and
allowed his mind a small respite from the chorus of voices in his
head.
The sun began to rise, and light crawled out of
the dark of the night revealing the dawn of a new day. He sighed and moved every so slightly as his
shoulders throbbed, his hands and fingers stiff and aching, but his mind and
heart laid bare to the nonsense questions to which there were no answers. As the mornings light grew ever brighter
unhindered by his sorrow, he looked down at his hands which were stained in a murky
crimson of his own dried blood. As he
stared at the sight, angels whispered about innocent blood that was shed once,
in the ultimate sacrifice long ago, so the crushed hopes of this world may be
redeemed and reborn in eternity and a small smile crossed his lips as he raised
his face to the warm glory of the rising sun.
~Maleko
(October 2011)
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