Leaves, Seasons, and Dead Trees (BxB)

28. - 514 Oakwood Avenue, Midmoines

"Sometimes I just close my eyes
And begin my descent"

- "Rest" by Leif Vollebekk -

*****

⚠️TW: imageries of death

*****

Samuel

Five days into the spring semester, we meet up at a quiet café near campus. He hands me a sweater, a gesture that leaves me uncertain. Gifts outside of birthdays aren't the norm, and I can't quite grasp why I'd be worthy of it now. I take it anyway without much preamble, knowing that if I voice my insecurities aloud I'd only receive a lecture. After that, he asks how I've been handling things, especially since it's the third time I've avoided home during break. I answer curtly, skirting any sentiment, and cut straight to what's been gnawing at me: whether Dad's car is still in the driveway after Tyson's trip to Grandma's.

"Well... See for yourself." He holds up his phone, showing me exactly what I anticipated: the driveway still being empty.

"Figures... and the yard looks like a mess too."

He sets the phone down. "Yeah. To be honest, it's worrying. I-I mean personally."

"Hm." I shift my gaze, tracking a hippo girl on a bike struggling up the street outside. "And you said you were at your Grandma's for how long again?"

"Five days or so."

"Five days?" That's long, even for Dad. His past runaways, no matter how ugly things got at home, never stretched past a day or two. He'd never leave like that, at least not completely. He'd always remain tethered to us in some warped way. But if he's really been gone this long, then this isn't just a fleeting escape; it's the kind of event I wish never happened.

In truth, I'm not preoccupied with where he's gone, but what it means if he's gone for good. If this isn't some bid for a fresh start but instead a final detachment from life itself where he'd end up wanted. Or worse, dead. I'll be pulled into it someday. I'll be the one summoned by the cops, the one called to identify him, to navigate the corridors of bureaucracy: death papers, autopsies, funeral homes, et cetera. I don't want any part of that. I don't want to face him, dead or alive.

And then there's Mom. If she's truly left behind in that house, with the walls collapsing in sync with her and the neighbors turning their backs, she'd likely drink herself into oblivion. Then, it'd only be a matter of time before the house swallows her too. And when it does, she'll be found too late, dying alone in that decaying place, collapsed on the mildewed couch or her room, surrounded by the empty bottles and the maggots.

I can see it now. Her bloated body slumps on the floor where she fell. The dark circles around her eyes, the foam dried around her lips, and I'll be the one to witness the body of a life crumbled to nothing on a cold autopsy table.

And if she's still alive somehow, it'll be a miracle.

Lost in the haze of imagining my parents' inevitable decline, I barely register Tyson snapping his fingers in front of me. "Dude, you good?"

I blink, shifting my attention to him. "What?" The concern in his golden orbs is the first thing that strikes me.

"You just zoned out for a second there."