Georges Pine

Georges Pine: A Short Story

George was walking to his town, a small place that resided in Oregon. He was walking home from work, a job that he found exhausting. George would have to wake up very early to get ready. He was fortunate to have his wife help him by preparing his clothes and cooking breakfast for him. He would say goodbye to his two boys and head to the bus stop. The walk was long but enjoyable, with the smell of the pine trees and wet dirt. The walk back, however, was dark and gloomy. The path was quiet, except for the occasional sound of his footsteps and the whistle in the trees. A tranquil aroma of pine coming from the trees filled him with peace; it reminded him of how his wife loved to collect pine leaves and place them all around the house and in jars. He remembered their walks and how she would take in a deep breath, holding his hand. ''Do you know what the smell of rain is called? It's called petrichor.'' His boys enjoyed the walks as well, but nowadays, they spend their time in their rooms. He couldn't help but feel bad for leaving his children for work every day, but he knew this was how he could give them the world they deserved. The smell of the chimney smoke was a classic; he knew he was almost home. He listened to the trees swaying before he was out of the woods, but something was off. He tensed up and held his breath as he heard someone else's footsteps behind him. He calmed down, leaving the forest, thinking that it was probably just someone heading home just as he was. He turned the corner, trying to push down his fear and rationalize this situation the best he could, but found it to be difficult. A car on the street had a side mirror, and the reflection showed the person still following. He felt like his body stopped, yet his legs kept moving; he was so close to his home. He decided to call his wife to take his mind off what was happening. The sound of the phone ringing echoed through the streets. It stopped abruptly, and on the other end, he heard the voicemail. He gripped the phone tightly in his hand; his mind became foggy; his wife always answered the phone no matter the time or day; and he thought of what could've happened to her. The fear gripped him tight; he felt so stuck that even if his house was in his vision, he felt like he wouldn't make it. He rummaged for his keys in his pocket, holding tight when he found them. His hands trembled. Putting the key in the door and unlocking it, he gripped the door handle, opening the door and slamming it behind him. He sank against the wall, putting his head on his knees, the fear coming to him all at once. His eyes welled up, tears streaming down his face. He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat was resilient. He ran his fingers through his hair while he gasped for air through his violent sobs. He stood up, still weak from crying. He staggered to the kitchen, hoping to see an ounce of life from his wife. The room was eerily silent. He called out for his wife through his quivering lip, panic gripping his body when there was no response. He stumbled to the living room, and on the couch was his wife, sleeping with the TV illuminating her face. He ran over to her, shaking her awake. She looked up, a wash of concern covering her face. ''What happened? I was so worried!'' She stood up, putting her hand on his face. ''I... I was... Someone was following me!'' She embraced him; he held on tight, gripping her clothes and quietly sobbing. He raised his head and glanced in the mirror, looking at himself. He clung to the empty air, but soon slowly let his arms drop.