A Twist of Fate SERIES (Pentatonix)

(1) Cracked

PART ONE

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( SCOTT )

There's something special about Texas air on a late October night.

Maybe it's the way the moisture clings to your skin and makes your clothes all wet. Maybe it's the way that, when you're out in the woods, the crickets will occasionally chirp, and every once in a while you'll hear an owl or a coyote.

Maybe it's the stillness of everything, but, unlike winter, it's not a calm stillness, as if it's tension-free. It's a suspenseful and ominous stillness, signaling that anything could happen at any given point in time, and there's no way you'll be able to expect it.

Maybe it's the quiet and tranquility, as if, when every other animal goes to sleep, but before the nocturnal ones wake up, even the small ponds in the woods go to sleep, too. Even the breeze and the leaves. Because, suddenly, you're not snapping twigs or crinkling leaves underneath the soles of your boots. Since the birds aren't chirping, the water is still and quiet, unmoving, unalive. Every once in a while, on a rare occasion, the breeze will blow, and for that short moment only, you can hear the trees, the leaves, the pond, and you'll know you're not trapped in a painting.

Whatever it is, October has always been my favorite month, especially after having been permanently residing in Texas for six years now. Weather permitting, I'm usually out walking in the woods in my backyard late each night, listening to the crickets and the owl and the coyote, waiting for a breeze to blow through the trees to rustle the leaves and ripple the water in the small pond in the clearing.

There's a large rock beside the pond, and sometimes I go over to sit on it. Despite the humid air, the rock is usually cool, and I just sit there, thinking, wondering, imagining, pretending. Thinking and wondering about nothing and everything, imagining and pretending different scenarios. How different my life could be right now if I hadn't made some specific decisions.

Sometimes, I'll sit on that rock, just thinking and wondering and imagining and pretending, listening to the crickets' songs, the owl, the coyote. The breeze to startle the leaves and the water.

When I'm walking back to the house, I'll oftentimes step on a twig and hear it snap, or I'll step on a leaf and hear it crumble, breaking the still silence and tranquility. Reminding myself that I'm still in reality, that I'm not trapped in a painting.

And when I get onto the back porch, I'll hesitate before going back inside, and I'll stare out across the yard at the woods, thinking of all the secrets it holds, its silence and its stillness.

And as I retreat to bed, I'll still hear the crickets and the owl and the coyote, I'll still imagine the breeze and the startled water. I'll fall asleep, thinking about the quietness of those woods, wishing my thoughts could learn from them.

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"Alright, boys, I think it's time for bed now," I say, almost reluctantly, as I crouch down at the mouth of the tent and peer inside at the five eight-year-old boys. At my statement, whines and protests are immediately elicited. "Now, now, there will be none of that."

"But Uncle Scott!" Landon whines from his sleeping bag at the back of the tent, his face distorted from the checkered screen that separates us. "We wanna stay up and tell ghost stories!"

"We just finished telling ghost stories, silly goose," I say, pushing back the screen and crawling inside; the wall of hot air immediately slams right into me, but I pretend not to notice it. "And some of them were so good that I think we've got some of the other Scouts terrified."