The Forest

Fireflies flicker in the violet dusk. A procession of teenage girls descend a tree-lined hill. She is second to last, shivering in her white dress. They are led by a dark-haired man. He talks to the girls, but they do not respond. She cannot tell if only she feels frightened.

They stop at a house with too many windows. She sees straight through the glass into darkness. The girls murmur but grow silent when the man holds up his hand.

“Come in,” he says, “There is food and blankets.”

They file inside. The only sound is the swish of their dresses.

The sandwich tastes like sawdust. She spits into her hand, then throws the food out one of the many windows. The forest swallows it whole. She is afraid the man has seen her, but when she looks around, he has vanished.

The girls are bleary-eyed, curling onto the blankets on the living room floor. She feigns exhaustion and joins them. There are so many girls, she cannot roll over without grazing one.  Though encircled by gentle breathing, she is watchful.  She is the only one who hears the back door slide open.

He returns with an ax. For an instant, she thinks he has been chopping firewood. But he pauses next to a sleeping girl and places his hand on her heart. Then he lifts the ax and splits the girl like kindling.

The man moves from girl to girl, feeling each heart, bludgeoning all. She is too numb to scream. The girl closest to her whimpers as the blade falls. He wipes the blood from his hands, then touches her chest.

She sees as the man sees.

A forest of souls. Each soul has the rings of a tree, round and myriad. The layers of a life enclosed in skin in place of bark. She sees her sisters as tender saplings, their rings delicate and fine. They will never grow to grief or bear the weight of recognition. Her own rings are deep whorls innumerable as stars. She realizes why she is always apart. Her grooves convey eons of watching alone.

She caresses a fallen tree, slick with sap. She tastes sawdust on her tongue. She waits for the culling. But instead of the blade, he reaches for her hand.

Sara McClayton is an educator and writer from Baltimore, Maryland. She enjoys exploring the outdoors, teaching and practicing yoga, and spending time with her husband and dog. Her work can be found in Unbroken Journal, Neologism Poetry Journal, and Ink in Thirds.