Oak

A Story by Mirjana Ilic

Trees and death

The car vibrates as it's winter wheels travel over the large stones and branches of the unpaved road. The woods enclose the road, leaving only a straight path visible in front of us, though the end of this road isn't visible. The dark hum of the giant oaks bring back that feeling. That feeling I have every time.

It was in these woods, you know. This is where it happened. Rather, my sanctuary after it happened. After your venom carved its path through my forgiving veins. After I let you take the last of what I had.

You had become the water molecules which clung to the carbon dioxide that escaped my lungs every time my chest contracted. I listened to every frequency you released from that seducing box in your throat.

Your skin.

The warmth created by your almost completely empty atoms was all I could think about. I wanted your hands. Your thin lips and your nicotine breath. I wanted to listen to your voice as I faded off into my own world while the suns rays made their way back up into the celestial sky. I wanted to feel you everywhere. In my most secret spots and I wanted you always.

Every moment you consumed my thoughts.

Every time the electric waves in my soggy brain reacted in such a way that I almost felt as if you were there, standing next to me, my whole body would crumble from the inside. A dull sharp pain would stretch throughout the whole of my intestines. You had become a worm, living in my innards. Your home had become my body

I gave myself to you and didn't ask questions. Not once.

I followed your every word as if you were the ray of light at the end of a tunnel whose exit was unknown to my naive being. You lead me.

But only where you wanted.

It's late now though. Considering that all that is left is a memory. A memory that has only been worn by years of regret, worn by thinking and overthinking and convincing.

That wasn't who you were. It couldn't have been. You loved me.

You f*****g loved me... at least that's what you told me.

Even when your wicked games had become too much, I continued to count. My back turned to you as you ran and hid. Hid from me, from the unholy land on which you walked.

You never believed in god.

I would count.

And then I turned around and saw you hanging there. Your neck, a line drawn in red as if another woman had kissed you, licked your neck with her stained lips. Your skin. Your burning skin looked cold. It made me shutter. The noose around your neck remained tight, it was the only thing keeping you in the lifelessly still air beneath your feet.

I came to these woods. I stayed in these woods we had once considered our own. Which I considered mine. You never liked the trees.