The sound of temptation.

My hands gently embrace the wood.

It curls delicately around the twiddling of thumbs as I carefully place it on the stool.
The stool, shaking from excitement, shudders from its weight. I rummage my pockets in search of the rusty key, one that’s been curated by the inner debris. I pull out the little devil, taking one glance at its small figure before inserting it into the keyhole.

 

Click the box whispers, and a tingle runs down my spine. I lift the stained oak, triggering the little motor of sound.
I am frozen. I watch my surroundings shift, as I listen to the boxes tune.
I blink, I am back in bed. Time has shifted. It seems to be morning, what an odd dream.

Perhaps I’ll go make some tea.

I pinch the greenery before placing it into my ceramic masterpiece.
I take a sip, burning my tongue without regret.

An odd dream that was.
I search for my stool, where shall I place my cup of tea?
Suddenly a thought strikes as I remember bringing it to the cellar last night.
One step at a time, I climb down the creaky floorboards leading to the basement.
I take a look inside; we meet yet again.

My eyes are pulled towards the center of the grim floor, spotlights shining, gasping for attention.
My hands gently caress the wood, a throbbing heartbeat within.
Why, that’s the stool I’ve been looking for!
It wasn’t much of a dream was it.

The music box weighs heavy in my limp arms. I place my hand in my pocket, once again pulling out the little key.
I insert its wobbly arm into the hole but dare I twist.
Time was warped and the day I have relived.
I shall not do this again, as this time around I must ponder about the consequential events.

I stay cowardly, but not for long.

Tiny mistakes and stupid errors urge me to fix my yesterday's.

Unfortunately, it has become a daily routine. I make my tea, carrying it down into my cellar in search of the stool.
On top of my muddy green pipe-legged stool, I find the oaked box.
I cannot resist, I take a moment to appreciate the care and craftsmanship I see in front of my fragile eyes.
The carpenter seemed to be quite fond of their creation, each swirl identical to the rest.

With a shaking hand, I reach out to twist the key and I flinch at the sound of the click.

Will there be a day when the click never comes?

My mistakes are forever permanent, never to be altered.

The tune penetrates every limb, indicating another chance at perfection.

I step outside. Crisp cold air; ice in lungs.
The frigid temperature was life’s final straw, and the forest went to sleep.
Yesterday I missed the snow and the tenderness those piercing shivers bring.
This time I shall go on a walk, a walk I’ve timed perfectly in correlation with the snowfall.

I take a step outside, reaching my cupped palms into the sky.
I smile as the snow melts against my warm body.
The water dripped down my arm, just far enough for my tongue to pick it up. I grin wider as I begin to lick the water off my skin.
I am small, unimportant, and fragile… no wonder such odd moments bring me this much joy.

 

The twigs crunch under the pressure of my feet, and the foliage has squelched beneath.

I spin in circles, dancing and singing with Mother Nature herself.

She greets me with joy, I greet her with life.

Today she greeted me with old roses, black roses full of maggots and mould.

She brings me horror as I hear a blood-curtailing scream far, far in the distance.

 

I stop in my tracks.
Dance unfinished, song incomplete, I sprint towards the sound.

Mother nature leads the way as I run without stop for millennia.
I step onto the dirt road. Left, right, left I cross.
Farmland scaling the mountains, deserted homes built with a helping hand, the church crumbling from ungodly presence.

A tiny ladybug in the distance catches my attention, its lifelike buzz so attractive in months like these.

Feet twisting, ankles throbbing, lungs aching, but I continue on my journey.

I reach the bright metal bug, engine steam emitting from its pipe.
I envy the warmth it’s creating, and I’m grateful to of borrowed some.

Gas is close to none; lights blink rapidly under the wheel.
Putrid colours stain the cherry red; rust of orange and green contaminate every crevasse.
The exhaust pipe holding on for dear life, she’s down to her final stroke.
I take a step back; this vehicle makes no sense to of been left here all alone.

 

Why did you lead me here, Mother?

I inhale.

I try to cease the pressure in my lungs, but instead, I am greeted with an ugly scent.
Decaying flesh stained blue and black.
The eyes, they’ve become nourishment for flies.
Guts are rolling about the previously stained trunk; they’re pulsating, begging to be revived.
Blood turned thick, dark, crisp The air feeds on its moisture.

 

My corpse awaits me in the back of the little bug, same sweater same boots, same mind.

A tear rolls down my eye, and utter shock escapes my lips as I scream at the bloody sight.

 

I fall and flake away my inner soul with each and every sound.
I’m beaten down.
I beg Mother to remove the cadaver from my memory, to strike away this torturous pain I am feeling.

I warm echo appears in my mind.
I slowly open my eyes, looking down at the road beneath me.
I lift my head; I study the area around me.
A woman of brute nature has appeared, she seems to of been observing my reaction.

“May I help you?” she asks me.

Flames form in my throat, and my esophagus closes on itself.
Do I truly look well enough, do I look like I’m capable of answering that question? Silence.
If my mother cannot help me forget about the past, then I shall go back and rewind my today.
I shall avoid the forest; I shall avoid this agonizing pain I feel so sickly in my bones.

The woman ignores me, “You know, I can give you a ride back home.”

A ride back home?
My home is deep in the elderberry woods, in the most sacred of places.
She cannot bring me home.

I glance at the woman, her glare meets mine as I grant her the gnarliest of looks.
She’s wearing a peculiar sweater, a familiar design I’ve seen many times before.
Her boots are black and polished, yet full of decay.
Her eyes continue deflecting my gaze as if they’ve seen it hundreds of times before.

“Step right up, I’ll buckle you in,” the lady smiles warmly.

The lady lifted me up into the cherry-red bug.
She secured my fragile body in the belt and, whilst assuring safety, drove recklessly into the bush.
She finds my home, opens the door with her garnished key and puts me into the cellar.

I thank the old lady; she’s gone out of her way to keep me safe.

I prop the emitter of tunes onto my stool.

The music box, rusty and old- the click is barely audible.

Her wooden body is forcibly opened, silent pleas are ignored.

I sigh, slowly turning my head.
I am now eye-to-eye with an axe.
The axe is my best friend, she keeps me safe from my memories… from the losses I’ve faced in the past.
Friend in hand, I look down at my lower limbs.
Hands are wrinkled raw, skin hangs loose from the thigh, veins pop blood thirst erupts.

I’m still young. I lift the oak.

I swing my weapon.

The silence is broken, murder is not a silent sport.

But she must die, and those memories are to die with her.

I cannot take them anymore; I am numb.

She is to never see my dead corpse.

She shall be my little corpse instead.

Sheesh my writing was bad. 

2/11/21