Ria Shah

Horror

4.0  

Ria Shah

Horror

The Woods Are Lovely, Dark And Deep

The Woods Are Lovely, Dark And Deep

6 mins
450


The Circle of Life is a philosophical concept. We start at the end and end at the beginning and all things finish the same for all. This is the rule, and there are no exceptions. 

Nature is beautiful, they say. Nature is rejuvenating, they say. Nature is a murderer, they never say. Nature is a vast field of scarlet roses full of thorns that pierce your skin and send trickles of crimson blood running down your arms. This is Nature's true appearance, the kind hidden behind masks of sunlight and sparkling waterfalls.

Nature is cruel and twisted, and vindictive. It plays a dangerous game, and we are nothing but puppets to Mother Earth. Play toys for her to amuse herself with. To test and torture and torment till she is bored, and maybe once or twice she'll grant us reprieve, but nature always lurks in the shadows, ready to do her bidding at a moment's notice.

You walk further into the woods, because danger whispers taunt in your ear, daring you to come closer. One step, two steps, into the woods you go. Right to the heart, where the leaves are too dense for sunlight to break through, where rattlesnakes twist around your ankles to keep you prisoner. You tear your eyes from the snakes cutting off your circulation and scream a terrible scream. The sound pierces the sky but you are trapped in the bubble of the forest and there is no one to hear. No one will hear you again.

She lies at your feet. A young girl. Entwining branches encase her in a gilded cage, holding her captive for the birds to feed on. The twigs coil tighter and tighter, her skin is blue, but her chest still rises and falls. Time and decay have left her body riddled with holes from the vultures, and her skin mottled and pale, like that of a snake. Her veins are prominent and blue through her transparent skin. There are dark, hollow, pits where her eyes once were, pecked out by starving birds. Poisonous berries have left her lips blood-red, her chin stained with remnants of the juice. How long has she been alive like this? Can this truly be called 'alive'?

Your thoughts cannot be ordered as the picture of her body ingrains itself into your mind. You try and take a knife to the branches and instead the blade pierces her stomach. Nothing leeches out. You pull your knife back, it is cleaner than before. She is skeletal but not a skeleton, alive but dead, she has been breathing for centuries but has never once experienced life. She was created to give, and give she has, but everyone has a limit. When will hers be reached?

She is older than this universe, she is younger than a newborn babe. She is beautiful, the way all things broken are beautiful. She is a twisted body made of twisted bones and a twisted heart that only beats for others. She has kept the woods alive all these years and they have not returned the favor.

You are frozen in this place that seems to exist in a vacuum, and her mind reaches out to yours. Your thoughts snap together like a jigsaw puzzle. The flowers whisper in her head, the flowers whisper in your head. More more more, they plead, on repeat like a broken record. You can hear the agony in their voices, how more will never be enough no matter how much the girl gives.

You hear the girl in your ear now. Her voice is that of an 8-year-old child, scratchy and hoarse from disuse. She speaks in a language you do not know yet somehow understand. Silence them, she implores. End this. End me. You know it would be the merciful thing to do. You do not know the consequences of such a thing. You do not know how you would accomplish such a thing. Please, she begs again. Anything. Your mind is made up.

You raise your knife once again and swing. One, two, three. The rattlesnakes glide away in fear. The branches dodge and swerve, suffocating the girl. Her skin turns to glass. The woods read your intentions, nature is composed of tapeworms infesting your mind. The towering trees scream in fury and rage, their branches march like soldiers to join the battle, their rustling leaves standing to attention. The birds swoop downwards, beaks glinting like shiny daggers, their chirps an orchestra in ghastly discord. The wind howls in vicious laughter, it is neither foe nor friend, simply looking for chaos. War is declared, it is you against the world. Another swing, six, seven, eight. You search to damage, to maim. You do not go for the killing blow, which is reserved for one person only.

Deeper and deeper into the gilded cage you go. The girl's fingers twitch in thanks, the last movement she will ever make. You bury the knife straight into her heart, between her fourth and fifth ribs. You free her from her prison.

You grab a fallen branch and plunge it into the ground like a pitchfork. You dig, lower and lower until your breathing is loud and heavy, sweat trickles down your back, and your aching muscles demand a break. You lift up the girl's fragile body, afraid it will crumble to dust in your shaking hands. You lay her to rest amongst clouds of dust, surrounded by piles of mud, and realize that even in death, she will fertilize the soil. She will never stop giving, whether she is in life or death or in-between. Still, you fill the pot until it is as though she was never there.

She is a corpse in the woods, left there to rot. The world will never know. They will find her one day, buried deep underground, and presume a murder was committed. They will not try for justice, they will not try for revenge. But the woods will always know, the woods will always watch.

One final time, you pick up your knife. The blade moves along a nearby tree trunk, carving a final message. This is Mother Nature, who gave and gave and gave until there was nothing left. You drop the knife into soft soil and watch it be swallowed up by the earth. An offering, a plea. They do not respond. Mother Nature is- was- their life force, and now a new one is needed. They will survive, somehow, because survival is the first instinct of all living things. And so, they find a new giver.

Mother Nature is gone, and you are next.

The Circle of Life is a philosophical concept. We start at the end and end at the beginning and all things finish the same for all. This is the rule, and you are not the exception.


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