• Black Tree Pass
    Chapter 1:
    Objection

     

       How soft my footsteps touch the ground.

    Such a poetic sentence, and yet, grammatically incorrect. My steps are poetic in themselves. Tip tap, tip tap with the odd tip top. The rhythm of my feet taking me further and further away from the ghastly infant school from which I have come. The other children have gone to the park, to play a game in which you attempt to kick a spherical object in between two hurriedly placed school bags.

    They don’t ask me, no one ever asks me, they just expect me to turn up if I want. Well I don’t want.

    The turning to my road is coming closer as I step ever nearer to my destination, my house, my room, my… solitude. But first! I have to pass the black tree, black tree pass. I have always admired its gnarled branches and leafless twigs. It has been dead for many years but even so it still stands proud in the middle of the roundabout.

    I can hear my footsteps again as if they are moving of their own volition. The distance between the tree and myself grows greater whilst the difference between myself and the house ever shorter. Past the terraced houses, my feet go, each one of the buildings looking exactly the same, except, that in the gardens are different flowers and inside the brick walls, different homes. It’s too odd to think about.

    My house is on the left so I turn and walk down the curving path not once stepping on the gaps between the slabs of thick cold stone. The light is off, meaning I’m locked out. Sitting on the doorstep I watch my breath roll away and sing quietly to myself to pass the time.

    The sun is already disappearing under the horizon before I see my father grumbling along down Black Tree Pass. I almost wish the tree would fall and land on him but that’s immature so I won’t. Even so I find myself giggling.

    My father is a very grotesque looking man; he has a stomach the size of an elephant and a moustache that looks as though two cockroaches have crawled onto his upper lip. I stand up, and wait for him to slowly trot over on his great fat, so called, legs. I was beginning to believe I would die of hypothermia before he even reached the gate but found my theory incorrect when I heard his viscous voice next to me.
    “What are you doing out here?” he spits “Why aren’t you inside?” he adds for extra measure.
    I don’t answer, why should I answer such a ridiculous question? Especially seeing as he asked it twice. His face turns to red then from red to purple and his small pursed lips practically burst with the effort of controlling his temper.

    “Bad day?” I ask as softly as I can, for fear of causing him to explode.

    It was then that he made an odd gurgling noise and stuck his arms awkwardly towards the door opening it with clumsy hands. Once out of view and ear shot of the ever watching neighbours, he lets loose. I can never understand what he is saying but don’t want to stick around to find out for fear of being drowned in my father’s saliva.

    I run up the stairs to my room. Opening the door then slamming it behind me creates one last explosive sound before total silence. At last I am alone.

    Except, that is not true. For you are here, waiting...

    You should ask me what I did at school, but you do not. You should ask me if I want to play, but no such words escape you. I sit on my bed next to you and we stare at the neat line of toys on the other side of the room organised into ascending height. I have no toys of my own. My mother believes they destroy the logical side of the brain and by the look of the other children, she is correct. No, these toys are collected from the branches of the tree. I am the only one willing to pluck, kites, balls, cuddly bears and once even a toy car from its murky depths. You think the tree is evil, I think the tree is misunderstood.

    A familiar tap of heels outside, signals to me that my mother has arrived. I turn to look out of the window then we file downstairs to greet her majesty. She ignores us, as usual, and precedes through to the kitchen her muscular legs strutting on ridiculously high heels. Her suit is brown and she has a pinched look about her. Not the most pleasant of sights, it's no wonder we have no family photos in the house.

    They're talking, my mother and father, talking about the tree and we are sitting on the stairs in the shadow of the great grandfather clock that never strikes 12. There's a letter from the council. I listen to them with despair filling to my ears and pouring out of them in great lumps and making my eyes water. They're going to cut the tree down. You don't pat me on the back and tell me it's going to be alright, you just attempt to straighten the painting, like you always do. You're useless.

    I've decided to make a protest! It will have to be a good one or no one will notice. It will have to endanger my life. I think back to all the bed time stories my mother used to tell me when I was small about women's rights and the kind of horrible situations females have been put through. I remember stories of people chaining themselves to buildings and a light goes on in my brain. You roll your eyes but follow obediently as I make my way back up to my room.

    I can't go out the front door, too risky; the window will have to do. I take out a sheet of paper and begin to plan out exactly what I am to do mathematically and systematically. Not before too long I am hanging out of the window and holding onto a skipping rope which is knotted to my sheets, which is tied to my bed, while you pretend to hold it. I jump the exact amount down to the bottom that will not hurt me and then walk towards the tree. I do not have my coat on, but that doesn't matter, if I catch pneumonia it'll prove my point. Closer and closer I walk to black tree pass, with you walking next to me.

    I have arrived.

    With one hand on the lowest branch I haul myself up placing a foot then a hand, a foot, a hand, foot, hand. The odd splinter here and there does not matter to me. My heart is beating fast as I make myself comfy in the dead tree. I can’t help feeling lonely, where are friends when you need them? I have no need for friends, I know that this is a logical protest, I know that I am quite safe on this branch and with you here next to me, I know that nothing will go wrong.