…
more to the accident…more than you dare believe
…
Sister Anne’s voice is still with me. I’m too tired to resist, so I let each word, each syllable seep into my thoughts.
…
more to the accident…
The images around me slow to a halt, advancing one frame at a time. I am the observer this time, watching myself.
…more than you dare believe
…
I smell the bourbon from the nearby bars, hear the music pouring from open windows. Cold air pinches my skin. The world is dark and bleak, save the promise of a better time reflected in the hotel windows. Rich fabrics adorn the windows, revealing opulent architecture and indulgent furniture.
I see myself stop at Clinton house, hands pressed against the glass as I remember the fantasies of that night.
The music, the harsh odors, the anticipation—it all weaves together into a frantic climax.
Until everything stops.
No frames advance. No sounds continue. I’m thrown back into that terrifying silence which defined that night. It reaches deep into my soul, wrenching my loneliness from its depths. My entire body clenches as I hold my breath and wait.
Thump-thump.
The ground begins to shake and the scene advances.
Thump-thump.
A sharp sound, like the crushing of glass underfoot emanates from a nearby alley. I turn to steal a quick glance.
Thump-thump.
A shadowy figure ducks down the long corridor. I squint to see where the shadow goes. And the scene erupts into chaos.
Fire.
The explosion.
My skin, melting from my bones as my body is hurdled across the space. I hear my screams. And something else. Something new.
Laughter, familiar in its cold timbre.
The sound comes from the alley and I run to follow it. There is something recognizable in the way the shadow moves and the maniacal tones of its laughter. The figure flits quickly through the alleys, ducking in and out of corridors and buildings. I can’t get close to it, no matter how hard I pursue.
The world around me shifts and changes. The darkened streets give way to the family cemetery. The buildings transform into tombs and mausoleums. The figure is in front of me, alone. I tiptoe towards the ominous figure, noticing two crypts lying open.
Erik’s.
And mine.
…I am not dead…I am not dead…
Fragments of the mantra repeat over and over until the silence returns, once more choking the air from my lungs. I reach out to the shadow in front of me, almost surprised when I feel substance to the form. My fingers wrap around its arm and spin the figure around. It wears a similar cloak, shrouding its face in complete darkness. All I can see are its eyes shining through the night. This is no aberration, no phantom.
I reach for the hood, unopposed, and wrap my fingers around the woolen cloth. A tremor crawls through my skin as I slowly push the cloak away and expose the truth.
My arms and legs shake. Bile swirls up from my stomach. I am overcome by the person staring at me, laughing. Always laughing.
“No!” I scream, unable to fathom what I see. I shouldn’t be surprised. I suspected it was her all along. But this, seeing her now…
It’s more than I can endure.
There is more to the accident,
repeats Sister’s voice. My mind collapses as does my body. I fall to the hard ground, unable to breathe.
“I told you to stay away from her, but you were too weak to comply. So I did what a mother must do. I protected my son.” There is no apology in her voice, no sadness or regret. “And I would do it again without hesitation.”
Mother laughs as I back away, unwilling to grasp the reality standing before me.
Mother set the fire. Mother caused the explosion. Mother is behind everything. She, alone, tried to
kill
me…
20.
“If the present world go astray, the cause is in you,
in you it is to be sought.”
~Dante Alighieri (The Divine Comedy)
~
The morning sun filtered through the trees, warming Ien’s face. Startled, he sat up, banging his head on the branch above him. “Ouch!” Rubbing his temple, he stood and stretched his cramped muscles.
Last night’s dream clung to his skin.
I would do it again. You didn’t listen to me. It was for your own good.
Mother’s voice coiled through him, chilling his blood.
Scenes repeated in the haze of his thoughts—the fire and explosion, the way the shadow moved in the twilight, the face that greeted him as he lowered the hood. He couldn’t escape Mother’s face. She appeared on the trees and in the shadows that danced around him.
“Why?” he whispered. “Why!” His voice bounced off the leaves.
Ien screamed until his voice cracked. He kicked the shrubs and hit the tree trunks, pouring a lifetime of pain and anger into the world around him. His arms and feet thrummed with agony. Small splitters lodged in his hands. Brambles tore the flesh from his ankles. He ignored all of it, relentless in his need to release the anguish filling his cells.
Ien continued his battle with the thicket until Mother’s voice no longer dominated his senses, and her face no longer inhabited his mind.
Exhausted, he slumped to the ground. Secretly, he had always suspected that Mother hated him, that he would never be good enough for her. He spent his childhood pretending that she really cared, that her incessant demands and nagging were all signs of her love for him.
He was wrong. So terribly wrong.
Ien took a deep breath and looked around. As his mind settled, the forest began to lighten and appear less ominous. He took stock of his surroundings: trees so dense the sun could barely filter through the canopy. Old stumps, overcome by moss, dotted the spaces between the woods. The floor was littered with ferns, wildflowers and a thick bed of leaves and needles.
I know this place
.
He glanced in every direction, taking stock before forging a path through the overgrown landscape. His pace increased as he passed small ravines that curved around the trees. The thicket thinned and in the distance he could just make out a clearing. He knew what lay beyond the familiar meadow…
Home.
“I told you to trust me.” Sister Anne appeared through the filtered sunlight, leaning on a tree in front of him. She looked like Erik often appeared, ethereal and ghost-like.
Ien’s eyes widened. He swallowed down his shock and pushed past her.
“You know this forest, don’t you? You played in it as a boy. Some of your fondest memories are here.”
He kept walking.
“But not just fond memories,” she continued. “Horrible memories too. Your brother’s death.”
He ran faster, his eyes focused on the clearing ahead. Sister Anne impossibly kept pace with him, speaking in whispers.
“There are other memories, too. Older memories.”
Ien’s legs faltered as her words slipped into his mind. Memories, too long forgotten, seeped into his consciousness and a familiar sense of fear engulfed his senses.
“Stop,” he yelled at the apparition. “I won’t let you do this. I can’t go back there again.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“No.” He didn’t want to answer. But the images wouldn’t stop. People, formed from the forest itself, circled his thoughts. Spiny branch-like fingers reached out for him. He couldn’t tell if they were real or drawn from his childhood fears. He dodged their path, still headed for the clearing.
The opening closed, blocked by more and more tree-people.
“Stop doing this!” Ien yelled.
There was no answer, only the constant movement of the creatures towards him.
“What do you want from me?” he screamed.
“Tell me about your father. What happened in this place?” Sister Anne’s voice echoed around him.
A new onslaught of images invaded his senses.
A whip.
A scream.
Blood soaked leaves.
“Tell me!” The sister’s voice had changed. The gentleness was gone, replaced by an insistence he couldn’t ignore.
Ien’s mind unleashed the memory. He fought against himself, clamping his mouth shut as the story formed on his tongue. He held the words back until he felt choked by the truth; a truth that had haunted him too long. Unable to resist, the words poured from his mouth in rapid succession.
“My father used to bring me here as a boy. He wanted to teach us—Erik and me—to hunt pheasant and game. Erik loved it. But me, I hated every moment. The forest was just too alive for me. The way the branches sounded when they crunched under my feet, or the wailing of the birds overhead, it all reminded me of the nightmares I had as a boy. And the tree-people.”
“Tree-people?”
“Yes, I used to think the trees would come to life and eat children. Every night I’d stare out of my bedroom window, looking at the forest. I could see them, the tree-people. They’d move through the forest and make the canopy shake. I used to think I could see them break through the clearing.”
Ien’s heart pounded as he thought of the nightmare. Sweat formed on his brow, his muscles tightened.
“Tell me about your father.”
Ien tried to refuse, but it was too late, the memory too strong. “One day, Erik challenged me to go into the woods alone. He said I was too fragile, too afraid, to come here without anyone. I wanted to prove him wrong. Needed to. So, I took Father’s gun and headed out after breakfast. The forest was dark and alive. The wind made the trees whisper things to me. Terrible, horrible things.”
Ien’s body quivered and he closed his eyes. Inhaling a sharp breath, he swallowed back his fear.
“I thought I saw the trees moving, coming to life. I aimed the gun blindly and shot into the thick forest. But the tree people kept coming, whispering. Again I fired. Over and over until the gun was empty.
“The last shot hit something more than a tree. A scream echoed around me, followed by complete silence. I turned and ran away, dropping the gun. I ran hard and fast, right into my father.”
Tears sprang in Ien’s eyes.
“What happened after that?” Sister Anne’s voice was scarcely louder than a whisper. Ien walked ahead, stopping next to an old tree. The bark was scarred, scratched in several areas. His hands trembled as he traced every mark.
He swallowed hard. “My shot hit the neighbor’s son, Charlie. He and Erik had followed me. They wanted to scare me. They were the ones whispering to me.”
Ien stared at the slashes in the tree, still tracing them.
“Father scolded the boys for scaring me and sent them home to Mother. The shot had only grazed Charlie’s leg. Father offered to carry him, but Charlie refused.
“I thought Father would comfort me after the boys left, tell me it would all be okay. But he didn’t. He loosened his belt and told me to stand against the tree.
This
tree.”
Tears streamed down Ien’s face.
“‘I told you never to touch my guns, boy,’ Father said. ‘This is all
your
fault. If anything happens to Charles, I’ll do more than whip you, you hear?’” Ien’s voice trembled. “He taught me a lot about his love that night.” He closed his eyes, remembering every detail of his beating.
The exact sound as the leather strap connected with his skin.
The sharp pain as it ripped open slashes across his back.
The taste of copper in his mouth as he bit back his screams.
Tears flowed down Ien’s face with the memory. After a few seconds, the tears stopped. Ien straightened his back and opened his eyes, releasing a sharp breath. He turned toward the Sister, his jaw clenched. “Father whipped me until my back was raw. That was the last time I went hunting. And the last time I dreamed of the tree people.”
“How old were you?”
“Six.”
Silence filled the gap left by Ien’s words. He brushed his hands over the slash marks again, a cold detachment replacing the intense emotions he felt just moments ago. He turned and walked to the clearing as Sister Anne began to fade away, his mind locked on the memories of his father
…you’re nothing to us…
…too weak…
…a disappointment…
…why can’t you be more like Erik…
Father’s words encircled him, forming a noose. They choked the air from his lungs, smothering his sanity. New memories emerged from what was left of his mind. Mother and Father arguing over him. Again…
“
He’s only a boy, John. You can’t—”
Ien saw himself as a boy, sitting on the stairs of the house. He remembered spying through the crack between the doors of the study, hearing the hateful words of his father.
“He isn’t just a boy, Katherine. He’s a Montgomery. I can’t have him going around shooting up the neighbors or chasing imaginary ghosts.”
Ien watched his Father pace, back and forth. Back and forth. His face was flushed with anger and Ien knew he was the cause of his father’s displeasure, like always.
“And Erik? Where are his responsibilities in this?” Mother’s voice held genuine concern.
“Boys will be boys, Katherine. He was simply trying to scare him. Ien was the one who broke the rules and shot the boy.”
“He didn’t mean—”
“You coddle him too much. That’s the real problem. You need to press him harder. Stop acquiescing to his whims and delusions.”
“John!”
“Yes, that’s it. Don’t comfort him anymore. Not after his nightmares. Not when he comes to you with his wild stories of the walls whispering to him.”
Ien remembered every word of his father’s diatribe, dictating how Mother was to treat him and listing all of Ien’s many faults. The memory fueled his rage image by image, word by word. He reached the clearing, his mind blinded with pure hatred.
~
Ien followed the path towards his house. Time passed in a blur as his thoughts continued to burn.
They will pay. For everything
.