Beneath This Tree

  Beneath This Tree

  J.D. Turner

  Copyright © 2019 J.D. Turner

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, organisations, events, establishments, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all dialogue and incidents, are drawn from the author's troubled imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  ISBN-13:978-1790579716

  This is for those who believed in me.

  This is for those who doubted me.

  And, most importantly, this is for those who were wise enough not to pass judgement until the results were in.

  18th November 2012

  If the tree had been able to speak, it would have whispered tales of its loneliness. Of course, it would’ve needed to be a very special tree for it to be burdened with the ability to speak, and this tree was anything but special. By the cruelty of nature, it had been placed in the centre of an ill-kept field with no other trees around for a mile on all sides. It was neither tall nor short; thick nor thin. It could not bear fruit, nuts, or berries, and nearby wildlife rarely got too close. In its solitude, the tree had grown stubborn; the wind could no longer sway its branches, and the leaves would struggle to free themselves during the autumn. In fact, winter was closing in, and the tree still clung to many yellow leaves that were desperately shaking to get free. There was, however, one small aspect of this tree that would pique curiosity: a piece of rope that had been tied to one of its branches and left to wither. The purpose of this rope would be ambiguous to most, but there remained a few that knew of its history, and one of those few was sitting beneath the tree, rested up against its trunk. His name was Leo Wells, an eighteen-year-old who wore his misery on his face. A misery that stemmed from solitude, abandonment, and stubbornness, much like the tree, which is one of the reasons he chose to sit beneath it.

  Despite the many similarities, there was one big difference between the two, and it was not the fact that Leo had the ability to speak, although that was an obvious distinction. It was that Leo would have never whispered tales of his loneliness. He simply preferred to keep his silence as though he was a tree himself. His suppressive nature was the result of another reason why he chose that particular tree, but that reason was buried deep, like a root that would only cause instability if unearthed.

  Leo stayed there for hours. He did this most days, neglecting education, friends, and whatever family he had left. I’m sure you’re wondering why he chose to spend so much time alone, Leo wondered that himself, but he would always conclude that it wasn’t his choice, it was his only option; a lie built from fear and held together by hope.

  By the dimming of the light and the chill in the air, Leo knew it was time to head home, but he didn’t move. He hadn’t the desire to do so. Perhaps if he had eaten something that day he’d have the strength to get up sooner than later, but that was not the case, and instead he remained deflated against the tree.

  As the sun ducked behind the distant hill, Leo stared at its glow. He imagined a silhouette appearing before the light—a stranger to offer the help that could not be asked for—but that image faded as the sun finally disappeared from sight, draining colour from the sky and casting a blanket of shadow below. He had hoped that the sun would’ve stayed with him just a little longer to delay the moment he had to return home, but he had stayed too long as it was, so he grabbed hold of a low-hanging branch that let out a wince of pain as he pulled himself to his feet.

  There was a long walk ahead of him, and while most people looked forward to the comfort of their homes, Leo dared not to look forward in fear of what awaited him. He slowly stepped towards the hill, wanting to extend the moment between now and then, even if he knew that the longer it took, the worse it would get. He couldn’t help it though, trepidation had made him hesitant.

  The view was astonishing from atop the hill, and once again Leo could see the dying sun on the distant horizon, giving a few more minutes of light to farmlands below and the towns that lay just beyond. Leo used this moment of awe to excuse another extension for his moment in-between, but the minutes passed like seconds, and soon the view darkened until all that was left was a gleaming halo cast by the street lights in the distance. With a reluctance that disrupted his heartbeat, Leo carefully headed down the hill and set himself on a muddy footpath.

  It was a route he had walked many times before, and one he expected to walk many times after, and so he knew that the farms ahead would be drowned in shadow and full of stench. He also knew that the streets in his town would be far from tranquil; occupied by the restless who were eager to get home to their warm beds. Neither of these places caused him to worry because, for the most part, they would be uneventful. However, what dwelled at his destination always upset the repetition, so all Leo could do was assume, and to maintain a degree of certainty, he’d always assume the worst.

  His destination, as always, was his home: an unkempt and lifeless building that was sitting uncomfortably in the middle of a terraced row. The garden was surrounded by thick hedges, which struggled to confine a blackberry bush that had ravaged the long grass. The thorns made it a cautious task to pick the fruit, although the bitterness of their taste was not something of desire. It was the kind of house kids would use in their stories. They’d whisper in passing that it was haunted, or that a monster lived there, and they weren’t entirely wrong. And even though these remarks were facetious, every one of their hearts would beat faster when they saw the house. Leo shared their experience, but his fear came not from mystery or rumour, but familiarity.

  After completing his recycled journey passed the farms and through the streets, Leo stood before the house and once again succumbed to its unnerving presence. His pulse was racing. At this point, he just wanted it to be over and done with, and so he rushed through the gate, up the path, and stopped at the front door with his key in hand. He listened for the sound of the TV. The obnoxious laughing and cheering of a studio audience could usually be heard blaring through the entire house, but this time there was nothing but silence. This is where repetition came undone.

  Leo unlocked the door and stepped inside. A mixture of odours surrounded him: rotten eggs, sweat, and scotch. Each smell was so potent they could be sampled by tongue. This was of no surprise to Leo. He could never get used to the air, or the nausea that came with it, but to him it was the norm. It was difficult for him to recall a time when the air was anything close to fresh.

  He shut the door behind him and faced the long, dark hallway. The only light that reached him came from a narrow frosted window next to the front door, and within that pale light is where he stayed. He wasn’t scared of the dark, or the breathing and creaking that was getting louder within it, he was scared of what came next.

  ‘I thought that might be you,’ a hoarse voice spoke.

  Leo didn’t blink or breathe, he just stared at the floor, where the darkness met the light, and waited. Then he heard a footstep. And then another. And another. But still, he didn’t look up, but if he had, he would’ve seen a large figure creeping towards him.

  ‘It’s funny that you . . . you must be the only person I know that would hide in the light,’ the figure said with a laugh. ‘Leo? Buddy?’

  Leo, once again, gave no acknowledgement and kept his eyes locked to the floor. The figure took another step and moved into the light. A large, grubby man stood before Leo, and even though he was no longer hidden by shadow, most of his lower face was still concealed by an overgrown beard, save for a hairless band on his cheek that gave way to a scar. His name was Carson Hale. Maybe if he had decided to shave once in a while, Leo could’ve recognised his dad, although he’d sti
ll refuse to address him as such.

  Carson moved closer to Leo until the gap between them shrank to a mere inch. Leo turned his head to the side, still looking down. His meagre frame made him appear all the more pathetic when stood next to his dad, whose physique had been built from years of manual labour, excessive drinking, and binge eating, but Leo was almost as tall, and at the age of eighteen, he was only going to get taller.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ Carson said, and then slowly inhaled through his nose. ‘Is that . . . alcohol on your breath? You started drinking without me? Aw, you’re growing up so fast.’

  Leo held still, trying not to shiver.

  ‘You know what,’ Carson continued, his head bobbing with every word, ‘some of my scotch disappeared this week. And last week. You seen any around? Maybe I’m being daft.’

  Carson swayed side to side as he waited for a response, but Leo was distracted by the clock ticking in the living room, hoping time would speed up.

  Tick . . .

  Tick . . .

  Tick . . .

  Tick . . .

  Tick . . .

  ‘Are you fucking listening?!’ Carson roared, spraying spit everywhere. He threw Leo up against the door and pushed his forearm into his throat. Leo gritted his teeth, trying not to let out any sign of pain.

  Carson leaned in next to Leo’s ear, ‘you think I’m stupid, don’t you? Just some alcoholic piece of shit, right? Right?!’

  He grasped Leo’s jaw and pushed his head up, trying to force eye-contact, but Leo resisted and stared at the scar on his cheek instead.

  Carson’s lips narrowed and his nostrils flared. ‘Fine. You want to drink? Come on then. Come and have a drink with your dad.’

  He grabbed Leo by the hood of his jacket and dragged him into the living room where the light failed to reach either of them. Leo was pushed into the dark with such a force that he immediately toppled over like a rag doll. He felt every bit of pain as he hit the floor, but he made no sound to acknowledge it.

  The air suddenly rushed past him, so he quickly climbed to his feet and backed up until he hit the wall. His father’s breath crept to the other side of the room, where a couple of glass bottles were knocked out of place. Leo’s eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark, and he could see a shadow emerge in the corner that seemed to be staring at him. Once again the ticking of the clock became prominent.

  Tick . . .

  Tick . . .

  Tick . . .

  Tick . . .

  Click.

  A bright yellow light burst across the whole room, casting a searing pain into Leo’s eyes. He instinctively turned away from the source so his vision could adjust.

  ‘I thought you liked the light,’ Carson said.

  Leo turned back to Carson, who was leaning on the floor lamp next to the window with a bottle of scotch in his hand.

  The room left much to be desired. It contained a tall lamp, a small TV, a single reclining chair, and a vast amount of scotch bottles scattered helplessly across the floor. It was a place not designed for entertainment, indulgence, or even solitude. It served only as a desolation, one that would have been completely hopeless if not for the memories it harboured. Leo rarely entered the room. It was difficult for him to see it so empty.

  Carson slowly approached Leo, dragging his heels across the ground. Leo didn’t break his silence, despite the temptation to do otherwise, and once again his eyes dropped to the floor as a bottle was forced into his hands.

  ‘Drink,’ Carson said.

  Leo stared at the golden-brown liquid inside the bottle, and already he felt close to passing out.

  ‘What are you waiting for? A toast? Fine, what should we drink to?’

  Carson snatched the bottle back from Leo.

  ‘To . . . family,’ he said, a wide grin appearing on his face. ‘What’s left of it,’ he added with a laugh, then promptly took a large gulp of scotch and followed it up with a belch.

  ‘Your turn,’ he said, shoving the bottle into Leo’s chest.

  Leo took the bottle with both hands and his fingertips quickly turned white against the glass.

  Tick . . .

  Tick . . .

  Tick . . .

  ‘Drink!’ Carson roared.

  Leo slowly tilted the bottle and let the scotch gently pour into his mouth. It wasn’t his first taste of scotch, so it went down smoothly. That was until Carson tipped the bottle further, insisting he take larger sips. The burn intensified as the scotch quickly filled up Leo’s entire mouth, forcing him to guzzle it down, but his stomach was abruptly disturbed by convulsions, and the pressure forced the scotch back up through his oesophagus and out through his mouth like a projectile. Carson had managed to step out of the way with the bottle to avoid being drenched in vomit. At this moment, it seemed fortunate that Leo hadn’t eaten a thing all day as his stomach could only throw up the scotch he had just downed. Though, as his throat ran dry and he fell to his hands and knees retching violently, you wouldn’t have thought him to be very fortunate at all.

  Carson bent down and looked at Leo, daring him to look back, but Leo kept his eyes on the regurgitated scotch that was pooled on the wooden floor.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ Carson said. ‘It might be a bit bitter though ‘cause I pissed in it earlier.’

  Leo’s stomach clenched once again, and he started heaving uncontrollably, only managing to expel a few slithers of saliva.

  Carson burst with laughter. ‘I’m just messing with you,’ he said, bringing his breathing under control. ‘Do you think I would really drink my own piss?’ he said as his sadistic smile faded. ‘Now clean that up.’

  Carson headed over to the chair, picked up the remote, and switched the TV on. He stood and watched the screen for a moment, enjoying one of his favourite shows, laughing along with the studio audience.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, spinning around on his heel, ‘I almost forgot.’

  He walked back over to Leo and placed the half-empty bottle of scotch into the pile of vomit. The laughter of the audience still bellowed through the speakers as Carson smiled.

  Tick . . .

  Tick . . .

  Midnight struck.

  ‘Happy eighteenth birthday.’

  19th November 2012

  It had been a long time since Crash last stopped to listen to the birds, and as he removed the last piece of clothing from the washing line, he paused for just a second and listened to their song. He looked up at the sky and was pleasantly surprised when the sun revealed itself from behind the clouds. It was unusually warm for a day so late in autumn, but Crash made no complaints. He was tired of the chilling bite of the wind, having allowed his beard and hair to grow out in a thick, scraggly mess in an attempt to fight the cold. So in this moment, he soaked up every bit of warmth the sun beamed his way.

  It was indeed a fine morning.

  There was a slow creak as a large lady stepped out of the house at the top of the garden. Crash studied her for a second.

  ‘These are a medium, aren’t they?’ he asked.

  ‘Charles!’ the lady screamed. ‘Get out here! There’s a man nicking your clothes!’

  ‘What the hell’s going on out there?’ Charles shouted from inside the house.

  Crash snapped up his new bag of clothes and ran towards the fence.

  ‘Hurry your ass up, he’s running away!’ the lady bawled.

  Crash threw the bag over the fence and turned back to the lady.

  ‘Have a nice day,’ he said, and then bundled headfirst over the fence.

  He was hoping to land on top of the clothes, but he missed them completely and hit the pavement instead, landing square on his back. He got to his feet in a hurry and was met with excruciating stomach pain that became agony when he tried to straighten his back. Charles poked his head over the fence, glaring not just through his eyes, but his thick moustache too.

  ‘You’ll hand that bag over if you know what’s good for you,’ the moustache babbled.

/>   Crash looked up at him, smiling through a pain-induced grimace, and said, ‘I do know what’s good for me, that’s why I’m taking these clothes.’

  Charles, who was in his underwear and only covered by an open dressing gown, threw his hairy leg over the fence with a snarl, so Crash snatched up the bag and ran down the street like a hunchbacked bell ringer.

  Charles slowly lowered himself to the pavement and chased after him. ‘You thieving little bastard!’ he yelled.

  ‘Can’t argue that,’ Crash shouted back.

  Charles was struggling to keep up due to the stones impaling his bare feet, and the only advantage he had was Crash’s compressed diaphragm, which had started to relax, and before long Crash was running with a straight posture, forcing Charles to give up the chase.

  Once he was in the clear, Crash came to a stop so he could catch his breath. He also took this time to look up at the sky again, silently cursing it. He had never been caught stealing from a washing line before, and it was the pleasant weather that had brought the cheerful birds and caused him to pause for thought. And to make it worse, that thought took him back to a place that he had spent a long time trying to forget. The past he left behind always caught up now and then to tap him on the shoulder, just to remind him he couldn’t outrun it forever.

  Leo had battled a headache and stomach pain throughout the night, spending a majority of his time trying to hydrate himself with tap water, but every sip ended with his head in the toilet bowl. The sunrise was an hour away and his symptoms had still not eased. He knew sleep was beyond him, and so he’d have to seek remedy elsewhere.

  The snoring of a sleeping beast could be heard coming from downstairs. The last thing Leo wanted was for this beast to wake, so he was very careful not to create too much noise as he crept across the landing. He also didn’t want to disturb his little sister, who he thought could use a little more sleep before she had to get up for school. When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he immediately looked over to the living room door and saw that it was slightly open. It unnerved him a little, but the snoring persisted so he moved towards the front door, still keeping his eyes on the living room, and put his key in the lock. He held still to listen before he turned the key, and the house went quiet.