The Killing Tree

 "I don't feel well," I told my mother's boyfriend. His name was Eric. He smelled like cigarettes and cheap Scotch. He always wore a leather jacket and brown khakis. Whenever him and my mother would be in her room with the door closed, I'd sit by the front door, trying his shoes on and walking around in them, pretending I was older. 

 "You're dead," he told me, taking a drag of his cigarette and ashing next to, not into, the ash tray on the coffee table. 

 He had a tattoo on his arm that snaked all the way around from his elbow to his wrist. I never understood what it was, and he would never tell me. I remember it had four heads and a tail that, if looked at out of the corner of my eye, looked like it was moving. 

 "Dead?" I asked. 

 "Yeah," he said. "You know. No longer living. You died about an hour ago." He seemed so calm as he was telling me this. More interested in smoking his cigarette while I was busy being blown away at this revelation. "I tried to save you, but you were gone by the time I could do anything. You're actually still lying over there in the kitchen." He pointed behind his head towards the kitchen and then turned the television up a little louder. 

 "Where's my mom?" I asked, tears beginning to build in both of my eyes and my lip quivering. I tried to not let it tremble too much; I didn't want him thinking I wasn't mature enough to handle my own death. 

 "Out." He exhaled smoke. "She'll be back soon. Not too sure how she's going to handle you no longer being with us. But I assume she will be more angry with you haunting us like you're doing to me right now."

 "I'm not dead. And I'm not haunting you. See?" I asked as I grabbed onto his arm. "I can still feel you." 

 "Yeah," he said, shaking my arm off of his. "But I can't feel you. Nothing more than air blowing across my arm. That's what happens when you die, ya know; you become nothing more than air. Everything is the same for you, but no one knows you're around. And you never will be again." 

 "But you can see me. You're talking to me right now." 

 "Nah. That doesn't change anything." He put his cigarette out and looked right at me. "I've always been able to see ghosts. Since I was very little. Just a special gift I have, if you wanna put a name on it." 

 I began to cry. I couldn't help it. The thought of never seeing my friends again. The thought of my mother never kissing me goodnight or telling me she loved me. My whole life: just gone. And I wasn't even warned. 

 "What do I do now?" I asked. I was sitting on the floor next to the couch he was sitting on, rocking myself back and forth, and crying. 

 "I don't know," he said. "I guess leave. Travel the world. No one will be able to see you. You can do anything you want, I guess." 

 "I want to stay here," I cried. 

 "Oh, no. That's not an option," he told me. "Your mother hates ghosts."

 I looked at him and yelled, "My mom loves me though."

 He shook his head and said, "That's when you used to be a human. Like me. Like your mother. Now you're a ghost. Like your father." 

 Everything felt different. The lights were different. I was freezing even though it was Summer. I could feel my feet moving around freely, as if they weren't in my shoes anymore. 

 He stood up, lit another cigarette, and went to the kitchen to grab another beer. As he did, I watched as he stepped over where he said my body was. 

 "Aren't you going to pick me up?" I asked. "Tell someone I'm dead? Take me to the hospital?" 

 He cracked the can of Bud Light and said, "Nah." He made his way back to the couch. "Wouldn't do any good." 

 "You're just going to leave me lying there?" 

 "Yeah. Until your mom gets home. It's better she finds out on her own. Ya know, so she can deal with it privately. Then I'm sure we'll do something with your body. Maybe bury you in the backyard so we can remember you forever." 

 I couldn't stop crying. I stood up and went to my room. I had an old backpack my father had given me when I was four. It had been his when he was a kid. He said he had saved it just so he could give it to me when I was old enough. I picked it up out of the closet and began putting my clothes in there. 

 Eric was standing in my doorway, still drinking his beer, still smoking a cigarette, ashes falling on my carpet. "You're dead. Do you need clothes?" He asked. 

 "I don't know," I said, still packing my clothes. "I've never been dead before. So I'm not sure what I'll need. I'm not hungry so maybe food is no longer something I need. I'm not thirsty either." 

 He walked back into the living room as I finished packing. 

 When I walked out of my room, he didn't even turn to look at me. Didn't say anything. I told him I was on my way. To tell my mother I'm sorry. And that I loved her. He put his free hand in the air and said, "Will do," more interested in his television show than my last conversation with someone that was alive. 

 As I reached for the front door, the knob turned by itself and the door opened. My mother was standing there. She was wearing her work clothes. She looked so beautiful. My heart hurt. I wanted to hug her, but she wouldn't have felt it any way. I lowered my head and walked past her, clutching my bag to my shoulder. 

 "Where's he going?" I heard my mother ask Eric as I was walking down the sidewalk. She could see me. She could see a ghost. My mother is a very special woman. 

Reviews

[Struggler]

i agree with Tim's critique of the child's vernacular. i didnt hear a kid's voice in some of the dialouge, but the thought process is spot on.

[Struggler]

it's quite gripping...i was wondering how it would end the whole read. i'm glad you have an outlet for your awesomly morbid humor :)

[jenniewren (J.W. Bouwma..]

oh wow.. this is amazing.. i've missed your words daveylove :) the tone as always is on point! and that final gutwrench at the end is just.. yeah, THAT good. just watch your "you'res" ;)

(it reminds me of a very mean trick i used to play on my baby sister when i was sick of watching her lmao i'm just diabolical)

[Tim M]

Nice piece. I like the blatant irreverence that the step dad charcter has. His total disregard for what he's putting into this kid's head unfortunately rings very real, and illustrates how adults can have just much disregard as children.

My only critiques are as follows: the thought process of the kid is pretty dead-on, but I would pull back on his language a little bit to make him sound more "child-like". Juxtoposing an intelligent "looking-back" narrative of a now older narrator with realistic grammatical errors or limitations of a past, underdeveloped speech pattern might give the story more weight, and flesh out the main character.

Good piece, though, with well-done anecdotes. I especially like the bit about trying on the man's shoes.