Blackberries

A short story by Mychal Sanders

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Rated PG-13 for disturbing content

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The blackberry thorn had wedged itself under his fingernail.

Sam cursed and plucked it out, flicking it from his fingertips and watching a bead of blood growing from ladybug red to scarlet. He pinched his thumb with his other hand, till the pressure made the throb slow to a bearable sting.

Damn blackberries, he thought, attacking the hedge with his clippers once again, remembering that next time he really ought to use the gift from Mrs. Evelyn Thomas, the wife, a pair of gardening gloves still hanging on the door of the tool shed with a return receipt stapled to the label.

Blackberries were ruining his life, Sam was sure of it. It all started with an argument about landscape maintenance, specifically the blackberries that he "let" grow rampant in a hedge twenty feet high. One argument led to another, his inability to stick with a project, a man of too much ambition and not enough work ethic to see it through. A bee, spending less than adequate time with each flower. He would let an entire garden die. It was unfair for her to judge him. Not her place.

Five years of arguments led to her leaving. All because of the blackberries.

It was easier than blaming himself. And though she wasn't present to be disappointed or elated, he trimmed the hedges with the concentration of a surgeon. A new years resolution that she would never see.

Even now, he was still bleeding for her. Just like she bled when she died abruptly, magically. It was time for him to get over it, he told himself. It was long ago.

Two pairs of sticks, crossed in the middle and tied with baling twine, under the shadow of the hedge. The grave he told the police had been dug for the family cat. They dug just enough to find the cat. Not deep enough to find her.

He leaned down with the clippers, and cut the rudimentary headstone at the base. It snapped freely, and he tossed it into the pile of trimmings. He would add it to the bonfire.

Footsteps approached from behind, soft against the earth. "You're doing a beautiful job, Sam," said Mr. Thomas, blinking with crystalline blue eyes that always looked watery. He was always kind, amiable. Oblivious. The ex-widower.

"Thank-you, sir."

"If... if Evelyn was still here, she'd be proud of how you've come through for the farm. Real proud. I wish she could see it."

Sam grunted, cutting faster.

"She and I had our differences, and sometimes we couldn't quite agree on the running of this place, but we did love each other. Even with the divorce. We still got along. She'd be happy that we've made it work."

"Ya think?" Sam asked.

"You've shown some real dedication."

Sam shrugged. Dedication. It did take dedication, a worker bee who knew how long was long enough. Someone had to die, he supposed. It was her or the garden. 

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THE END

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Cover by Mychal Sanders