Twinning Stories

JayCee

I rub the tears away and try to look strong. "No," I snarl, clenching my fists tightly. "You can't do this to me!"

The witch I call a stepmother flares her nostrils, her fingers twitching, as if seconds away from slapping me, and barks, "Jon!"

The tears keep flowing and I can't do anything to stop them. "No, you can't tell me what to do!"

She brandishes a whip, which has cast countless scars and bruises on me, and her face turns red. "SILENCE! You insolent, ignorant, incorrigible idiot!" She cracks the whip in the air.

"Shut up!" I screech, unable to take it any longer. I point my finger at her plump, hideous face, now contorted with rage. "I'll never listen to you, witch."

She shrieks furiously and flicks the whip in front of me, but I flee before she gets me.

I hear the uncontrolled screeches of my stepmother as I run as fast as my legs can take me. Along the fields, up hills and winding around the farms around the countryside. I run anywhere, everywhere, where she will never find me.

I feel free, with no worries of that lady, like a bird escaping from its cage, like a gazelle running freely along the grasslands, like a fish in the vast, open sea. Spinning around blissfully, I suddenly recognise the familiar scent.

I stop and race towards the smell. The scent of lavenders.

The ups and downs of the hills. The hills of my childhood.

I run along those hills, taking in the fragrance of the lavenders, running in the direction of the gigantic sycamore, standing strong, as if it can withhold any offence.

I lay down beneath the sycamore, in he field of lavenders, breathing in the earthy smell. I stroke the bark of the sycamore, and then the stones.

Those two stones. Those two stones engraved with the names of my parents. My father died two years ago in the war, and my mother, my real Mother, gentle and sweet, full of all things happy, her voice like the calls of a nightingale, was killed by illness, just before my father. Touching the stones, I couldn't help it, but the tears keep flowing.

Memories of my childhood flashes before my eyes, and I close my eyes, trying to bring myself back to those times, those beautiful times.

"But I only have you, sycamore. You'll always be here for me."

A gust of wind blows, and I can almost swear that the sycamore rustled a reply, "Jon, my Friend..."

I crawl further beneath the tree and curl among its roots, wanting to sink inside the earth. "Sycamore, what do I do now?" I whisper softly, for only the sycamore can hear.

This time, there is no reply.

"Sycamore, I'm afraid." I'll never admit this to anyone, but I'm afraid. "Sycamore, I'm scared. Where do I stay? What do I do, sycamore?"

The tree sways rhythmically to the breeze and I feel like crying again. Crying out all my sorrows, all my troubles, all my worries, all my pain.

"Sycamore, you're my only friend..."

---

THUD.

THUD.

THWACK.

CRRRAACCKK.

BOOM.

The earth shakes as I stare at what had been my only friend.

"Sycamore..."

The workers pull the logs away, along with those terrible, merciless machines.

I race towards the site, flailing my arms and yelling, "No, stop! What are you doing?"

I see, right before my eyes, as the workers scoff at me and kick at the ground.

"Mother, Father?"

I weep in silence as the workers pull me back from collapsing near the stump.

"Sycamore!"