The Clearing

The wind blows the leaves around my feet as I stand in the middle of the shadowy clearing a few miles behind my home.  The red and gold leaves of the trees soothe my tormented soul.  The clearing, the forest itself, has always been my sanctuary.  It was where, at six, I’d come to dream and play, much like the characters in my favorite book, Bridge to Terabithia.  Only there was no bridge and there was no best friend when I played.  The small treeless patch of woodland has been many other things in my life, including where my father taught me to shoot a gun with a trembling left hand as well as where I’d picked wild flowers for my mother in the hopes that she’d shake herself out of her downward spiral.

It is morning and the sun is starting to warm the cold earth.  Wisps of dew and fog rise up, fingers of sunlight, somehow, with great strength of character, break through and warm my upturned face.  I allow it to wash over me, hoping it will somehow purify me, wash away the sins of the night as the day breaks.  It is a sight that cling to you forever because of its utter peacefulness, and my forever is much shorter than anyone else might anticipate.

            As I grew older, this clearing, these woods, this playground of imagination, turned into a hiding place, a safe sanctuary from the drunken fist-laden dance that waited for me at home.  I can’t really even call it a home, home is a safe place; this was a dwelling with four rotting walls, age- fogged glass, and cracked linoleum.  This was purgatory, this was a place on earth where no child should grow up, but grow up in it I had.  What I had grown into was wholly another topic.

            Now, this sanctuary, this haven, is where I will find peace.

            With trembling hands, I move the blue steel, still warm from its release, into the waistband of my jeans.  The feel of it comforts me as it presses against my hot sweaty skin.  Now I must deal with another type of steel – a spade that I dragged behind me on my trek here.  I am a planner.  I never do things spontaneously. 

I make short work of the sacred and hallowed ground under my feet – opening up a hole in the earth – scarring it.  This hole, which will essentially swallow me, mars the once pristine pine needle covered ground, but it is something that must be done.

            The clatter of the spade startles me from my foggy, dreamlike state, as I let it slip from my weak grasp.  My dead eyes watch as the shadows of the sentry trees grow longer.  Time passes, but I don’t move.  My muscles do not twitch, my mouth does not move, only the beat of my heart reminds me that I am still alive. 

            It is all too real, the feel of the dirt under my short nails, the sting of the blood in my eyes, the cooper taste that still clings to my sandpaper-dry tongue.  It has finally happened; I have stared into the eyes of the dark abyss and embraced the madness that dwelled so deep inside of me, that I hadn’t even known it existed.

            That is until today.

            This is where I’ll be safe from the chaos, the pain, the sadness and the inner insanity. 

I climb down into the hole, the last resting place of me.

            The same me, who after enduring the endless nights where my drunken mother beat me until she vomited at my feet, then had the audacity to tell me to clean up the mess. 

The same me, who would lie in my bed of shame, biting my pillow while my father did his drunken deeds, roll over and fall into a stupor for a day. 

            So I lay, my mind remembering that prayer: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; should I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. 

            If the Lord will take my soul, I do not know.  I may very well no longer have one to give.  My rational mind knows that this resting place will not be my last, but I do know that it is of my choosing. 

I exert the last of my free will.  I remove the revolver from the waistband, which I have already reloaded before my pilgrimage here, since six shots have already been spent: three into my mother and three into my father.  This last victim will only require one.

            Settling into the wet, velvety earth, I wish that somehow I could be covered with the sweet smelling soil, but this chamber of my own making will have to do.  I place the cold steel under my chin, making sure that my aim is once again true.