The woods were dark. The path uneven and criss-crossed with gnarled roots. He stumbled and staggered along, adjusting the coil of rope on his shoulder frequently. Somewhere in the darkness there was honeysuckle growing. He could smell it. It made him remember her. There was honeysuckle growing on the rock wall outside her window. He ducked beneath a limb and wiped cobweb from his face. The woods had spider silk strung between the trees everywhere. He imagined the woods as a giant cocoon. The silk was always sticking to his face no matter where he went within the forest.
He looked for the bend in the path. He’d come here everyday since the funeral. It was here that she’d met him. Or rather, it was here that he’d met her; seated beneath the Grandfather Tree sketching the burly trunk and twisted limbs. He turned the bend and tripped, staggering forth into the clearing.
“Are you okay,” she asked, setting aside her drawing pad.
“I’m fine, Sam. I always forget about that last root.” He said, stopping to admire her perfect skin. “You’re glowing.” He pointed out, gesturing toward her face.
“You do have a way about you.” She giggled. “Thank you. Do we have to do this again?” She asked.
“I don’t see how we can stop.” A breeze blew through the forest, rustling leaves and carrying more of the honeysuckled scent to them.
“There was honeysuckle growing outside my window. Remember?” She asked, excited. “You loved that smell.”
“I remember.” He swallowed the lump in his throat and refused to look away even though the urge to continue was building. He couldn’t help but admire her seated there in the splinter of moonlight piercing the canopy of the Grandfather Tree. The moonlight made her glow so brightly. “Why do you keep coming to tree?” He asked, shaking out the coil of rope.
“Where else would I go? My love comes here every night. I will sketch him for eternity.” She proved the point by taking back up her sketch pad and pencil. “Maybe tonight, with the light filtering in as it is. Perhaps you could, ” she hesitated, “maybe hang yourself from that limb over there instead.”
He looked up at the decaying body already hanging from the tree. His decaying body. “You would think they’d have cut me down already. I’ve been hanging there for weeks.”
“This was our place, Shawn. We came here because no one else did.” He threw the rope over the limb.
“Not that one. The one beyond it. The light will shine on your face.” She interjected, pointing with her pencil toward the limb.
He pulled the rope down and tossed it up and over the limb she wanted. “Will this do?” He asked. She nodded, making that pouty look he loved so much. She made it everytime she was deciding on how to start a new sketch. “I know the tree is off the regular path, but it just feels like nobody misses me.” He said, tying off the end of the rope to one of the gnarled roots of the tree. Convinced the rope would hold, he climbed the trunk of the tree and shinnied out onto the limb.
“I’m sure they miss you, baby. You didn’t leave a note though. How are they supposed to know you’ve gone missing if you don’t leave a note. You’ve always been a loner, and since my funeral, you’ve withdrawn even more.” She started her sketch by drawing the Grandfather Tree.
“Are you ready?” He asked, looking into the darkness beyond the leaf-covered clearing. The Collector’s were coming to watch him hang himself again.
“Not yet. Give me another moment. I need to sketch the limb first.” She brushed her long black hair out of her face with the back of her hand and resumed drawing.
“Are you going to draw me with charcoal tonight?” He asked curiously. “It has a more artsy feel about it.”
“Artsy?” She laughed. “That isn’t a word, baby. And no, I’m not going to use charcoal. I was thinking of something different for tonight. Something special.” She said, setting her pencil aside. She pulled a flat hinged box from her art kit and opened it, pulling out her pen.
He slipped the noose around his neck and tightened it, slipping the loop closed. “I wish I had used better rope. This one itches. You know, when I did this for the first time, that was what I was thinking about as I fell. I was thinking about how much the rope itched. It’s strangely upsetting? I had wanted my last thought to be about you, but there I was falling thinking about how uncomfortable the rope was. I never deserved you.” He said, suddenly changing the subject.
“Sure you did. After all,” she said, dipping the nib of her pen in the blood spilling from her wrist, “we’re two of a kind.”
He smiled down at her then, and watched the dark pits where eyes should have been widen and recess, spilling their blackness across her perfect skin like vines climbing a wall. He smelled the honeysuckle on the breeze one last time and fell. The limb shook, dropping leaves as his body came to a sudden stop, feet dangling, limbs convulsing, rope swinging. She sketched the man she loved in blood, recording every detail vividly. When she finished, she tore the page from her pad and set it aside to dry, then cleaned her pen and replaced it in the box. She shook out her hair, retrieved her pencil and waited.
“Are you okay, she asked, setting aside her drawing pad.
“I’m fine, Sam. I always forget about that last root.” He said, stopping to admire her perfect skin. “You’re glowing.”
Koyotee Laughing 