socrites

[socrites]

The Man and the Tree

Each step on the green blades was a violation that could not be stopped, each time the grass was crushed, it would remain flattened, the only protest and pain it could express.

The strange footprints trailed on in the morning dew, the dark figure intent on the destination. The path followed had been traveled many times before, marked by how the grass lay dead, devoid of any meaning save its singular function. The black shoes traversed on, disregarding the insignificant plants, sticks, and bugs killed with each step.

Eventually, the Man stopped at a tree, the tree that wept and wept, though the Man always mistook such weeping for tears of joy at his arrival. He got close to the tree, laying his hand on the gnarled bark and closing his eyes, attempting his own version of some sort of ritual to awaken the tree. At last, the hand was removed and the eyes opened, then the mouth would follow, emitting a deranged, fanatical tongue.

"Ah tree, good it is to see you again! I normally wait until our usual days to converse, but the news I had to bring!"

The Man didn't wait for any sort of response, he never did. Whatever reply the tree could give was no more than what the tears of a broken child could offer, but the Man didn't care, determined to share with the tree.

"It is of a Woman, oh how fair is she, how kind her skin, how soft her words! I know not of her name nor person, but it shall be my mission to discover where such suppleness lives. I will be with her if it's the last thing I do, and every second of my life shall now be dedicated to learning more about her in some way. The scent of her soul, the shapeliness of her hair, I simply must possess such perfection."

"Well off I go, I'll make sure to update you on every step of my journey!"

He sauntered off, not bothering to look at the relief that was blowing in the leaves of the tree, nor how it continuously wept its very existence pain. The form of the man grew darker and darker, until it was nothing but a speck of black in a bright world, and the tree still wept.

This was not the first time the Man had stolen his visit with the tree, and it would not be his last, for there would be many updates to give the tree. Sometimes the Man would appear to the tree winded as if he had just escaped being caught. Other times he would bring items, such as the undergarments of a female while being covered in the blood of a dog, a knife dipped in red ink on his hip.

The tree would be made aware of his many adventures, the innocent beauty of the Woman being recounted. On some days he would arrive in a flurry of anger, cursing the child-like nature of the Woman, questioning why he was the one who was broken. The truth is that one cannot be broken when one is never made with purpose. He would threaten all forms of punishment upon her, though every time the leaves swayed in the wind the Man would pause, drinking in the soothing nature of the tree, unaware that this was simply the breaths one draws so that they may cry harder.

In one particular instance, the Man returned in a rage unseen before, yet worse than all his previous outbursts, as he was quiet now, calm as a lion killing cubs.

Every step seemed deliberate, designed to hurt the grass as much as possible, twisting each foot like how the knife twists into the bark. A hand reached out to the tree, however instead of attempting to commune, it spread its fingers, so that the gashes may be felt, the vulnerable flesh of the tree revealed.

Upon feeling these wounds the Man smiled, before raising his knife and frowning at the bluntness, no doubt lamenting how the ability to cut skin has been diminished.

His hand was extended once more, repeating the same ritual that had been performed thousands of times before, or perhaps only dozens. The noise that was spat from his mouth was as tasteful as vinegar, yet it still attracted flies to his position.

"Oh tree, wise has your council been, but useless is it's worth. I have only suffered under this endeavor, with none to care for me. Every attempt to draw closer to the Woman has only been met with pain, tears, then silence. She confuses me, for how can one as sharp as her not realize the devotion of her lover? My infatuation with her grows every day, but so too does my rage, as she does not reciprocate these feelings."

"Just the other day I left several rats inside her home to make up for the pet she had lost, yet all she did was scream and attempt to kill them. Seeing that this was what she desired, I followed suit, killing many rats, and gifting her with the corpses. Still, this had only upset her, causing her to retreat into herself, and to seek shelter from others. Foreign eyes guarded her house, making it difficult to enter her premises."

While these words were uttered, the Man took to his pocket, grasping and clawing for the accursed objects.

"These eyes to be precise," He stated, as he displayed them with the pride a cultist shows their demon.

"How dare she allow any other man that's not blood to look upon her," he hissed, "this is an insult not only to me but also to her character, to tempt the evils of this plane by making a show of force. I am the only protection she needs, and I alone will be the sole evil who is tempted by her. No other vile creature may step forth and cause her to despair, for she is mine, and so too is her fear."

As he announced this he hurled the eyes into a bush nearby, where they would be consumed by the inferno that lightning incites. The tree, as every time, simply wept, for it was alone in a world of wickedness, and every second weeping was one less second exposing itself to it.

Time passed by longer than the tree expected, and it was uncertain as to whether the days grew more numerous or time itself was stretched. Slowly, onwards nature pushed, with animals dying, carcasses rotting, and the Man nowhere to be seen, to the surprise and satisfaction of all.

Silence is the anguished cry of the depraved, for they have fallen so low that any noise made is inaudible to a sane person's ears. There is no such thing as crazy, simply misinformed, as truth and lies are so intertwined that it's impossible to tell where one starts and the other ends. To live is to experience, to choose, to lose, and to die. Life is only discernable by its contemporary death, should no one die, then life would be defined under a different pseudonym, Every second that passes reminds the living that death isn't the future, but the past, as each person lives a million deaths before their time.

The tree knew all this, yet it still grieved, grieving for the dead, and for its own selfishness of wanting to save the dying. Any and all acts of good are done out of greed, making the world better, giving to the poor, and keeping loved ones alive, the final benefactor of these actions is oneself. A person wants a better world so they may live more comfortably, helping others satisfies a self-image, elongating the lives of loved ones so that the pain of their passing won't be felt.

Every and any act is selfish, and so the tree wept, for it knew and it knew.

The Man would arrive in a rush, clothes torn, hair matted, holes formed in the fabrics from .30 caliber bullets, shot by weapons from a war long past.

Not a scratch was on the Man, and his breath was smooth, his knife scarlet. It was fed with the blood of a bystander, and flecks of skin still clung to the edge.

The man performed his rite with the tree, then spoke quickly.

"Dam it all! Another wasted campaign, nothing learned! I knew when I acted, and knew not of the act, only feeling my appetite push me."

The rain had followed the Man, and the drops could be seen falling off the coats and barrels of men at the bottom of the hill.

Time was precious.

"These fiends and their codes, my liberation was their heaven, if they had just allowed me to work, then they would've never had to again!"

The people marched on, bending the grass in a way the Man could never have known, and although pained, the grass bent with respect, grateful to be avenged.

Seething, the Man stared at the justice that would be delivered by the brutes, taking a moment to spit in their direction, instantly killing all organisms that connected with the fluid. His hands, originally grasping the tree, raised to the sky, as a declaration of surrender, or a proclamation of power, the tree didn't know.

The horde grew closer, intent on inflicting as much physical torment as possible on the Man, for they had brought all manner of weapons, each blade blunted and rusty.

Increasingly frantic, the Man climbed the tree, reaching the top branches quickly, the wind and rain causing the tree to cry harder than ever.

The Man muttered how this wasn't fair, that they were dooming themselves to an eternity of torment, that only through him could they be freed.

As the crowd began to reach the top of the hill, a brilliant arc of gold swept across the celestial body above, a flash of pure divinity shooting down upon the Man, striking his head, and engulfing the tree.

The flames that erupted from the Man's neck were sacred, dissolving the body of the pig into a liquid that would evaporate into the night's solace. The tree that wept would rejoice, for finally it had been cleansed, the fire soon spread to the bush nearby, turning it and everything within to ash.

Shocked, the villagers stared in silence, unsure of what to make of this glorious display. Soon, as the blaze died down, they departed, leaving to sleep in their meaningless beds, never to recall this experience again.

The tree, although blackened, would smile, charred and reborn, as the rain would wash the soot away, and the wind would carry the sins of the Man to land away, and the tree would begin to weep for joy.