When The Pane Ended

A short and mildly disturbing story.

His woody arm taps rhythms onto the pane, screech and scratch and knock and knock. Some sort of Morse code perhaps, trying to tell me something. I have watched him for many years, that tree; was only half his size when I first came here. Now his top branches have reached the fourth floor, beating against the glass. I listen to him as I lay on my bed of blankets; there are three altogether. There is also a desk and a chair of a different wood, besides that there are empty white walls around me, the way it’s been all this time. He has been my only friend up here, this time in this room. Ever since that man with the green eyes put me in here, that man with the strong grip and deep voice. Back when my blond hair fell in angelic locks to my shoulders, now a tangled mess past the hip; he hasn’t even allowed me a comb. Merely the same meal everyday: a scoop of white rice he drops onto the floor, some old peanuts and a cup of water that he always takes back after I finish. At the beginning I would try to escape when he came, but when his knife cut through my skin, from under my left eye to ear, I knew it was for naught. But still I had the tree out the glass wall. Now he’s finally reached me, now he speaks to me in some code that as the minutes go by I think I begin to understand. The scratching and the tapping are hardly so, but words in a different tongue. He speaks to me, in a beautiful language, teaching me the words one by one. He’s telling me word by word, telling me what to do.

I reach out and press my fingers to the cold pane, to feel him, to feel his words travel through me. His voice is rough and hollow, but no less beautiful, I think even he is excited when he lunges to the glass, a sudden exclamation. I know I mean as much to him, as he does me, I know then his heart yearns for me as mine does for him. I know that must be why he grew so tall to reach me, to be with me, to lull me with his sweet words in that deep voice of his.

Now day after day I spend my time in here, talking to my love. He keeps me company, and I feel something I haven’t for a long time; and the corners of my mouth bend on their own, my dirty cheeks tense, and my eyes are pulled long. Suddenly it doesn’t seem so bad up here, as long as I have my dear tree, who tells me his name is Rupert. I press my fingers to the pane, a little warmer now, and Rupert does the same with his still green. The leaves on his fingers are still small and lighter green; there are yellow flowers with orange eyes further down his body. Perhaps those are the eyes he’s been watching me with, all this time.

As night falls, I hear the green eyed mans footsteps coming up the wooden stairs. But he’s already fed me today, there’s only one reason he has come again. The metal in the door shrieks, it is afraid still, the harsh man turning the pins; I have forgotten fear, it no longer exists. The door pushes open with force, and one look into those green eyes says it all, I know what he wants. I lay on the bed as I am supposed to, as I have for many years. But as the grim act ensues, my love, my Rupert makes great protests, he is upset with the green eyed man, calls him terrible things. My poor poor Rupert is distraught, to see me in such condition. The Green eyed man finishes his business and leaves, and I hear my dear Rupert, crying quietly out the cold pane.

The next few days, Rupert barely speaks to me, I worry that he is mad at me, that I do not protest anymore. He says he isn’t angry, at me anyway, he is just upset. In time he comes around, and again begins to talk. The flower eyes on Ruperts body begin to fall to the ground. It upsets me when the people on the street walk on the beautiful flowers, but Rupert assures me that it’s fine. Perhaps this is how he felt about me. Rupert begins to talk about something that I have not thought about in years; how to escape. I tell him I have tried before to no avail, not even the people below could hear me. He tells me I must find a way out of here, somewhere safe. “But even if I do, that would mean leaving you” I tell him. He says that doesn’t matter now, that I must free myself, that I am more important. There’s a pain in my chest, my heart quivered at that, though I know he meant it to be a compliment, it stung me. Rupert then made an even more grave statement, he thought of a way. He tells me to shatter the window, to climb down him and escape. He sounds so bright at this, like a child, but when I heard this, my heart hit the floor. “No, I cannot, I will not” I say with tears pushing out of my eyes, “The window is our only way to talk to each other.” Rupert tries to console me, tells me that it’s ok, as long as I am safe. No, I cannot do this, I cannot silence my friend my love, the only one who has spoken to me in years, the only one who has loved me all this time. Again, Rupert reverts to his quiet state, this time; I know he is upset with me.

A few nights later it is storming, the rain is pouring past the glass pane, and the whole room crackles in the dark, only lit with occasion streaks through the violent sky. Rupert is crying and will not say why; his sobs are beating hard against our barrier. But then the door swings open with equal force to the outside air. The Green eyed man looks rabid as ever, and doesn’t wait for my submission. Rupert begins a hysteria as the man forces me down to the hard wooden floor. His violence has grown out of control, as does Ruperts as he screams louder than ever. He screams for me to break the window, despair in his tongue, screeching, screeching, he doesn’t stop. I scream back that I cannot, that I will not, and the green eyed man is angered; his strong hands turning my skin shades of purple, holding me like vices. Rupert only grows more rampant; he tried to break the window himself. I scream “No!”, but a blow to the head makes my world go black.

My eyes open to a bright light, the sun illuminating the white walls of the room, but something is wrong, it is too bright. I stand up and realize my surroundings; the sun shines through from a morning sky, into my room through a glass pane. But there are no leaves shading me, no woody fingers reaching for me, no feeling throughout my body as I realize, my love is gone. I rush to the glass and look down the four stories to the street below, there I see my dear sweet Rupert lying still across the road. Everything seems to stop as my body goes hollow inside. My legs give, and I too follow Rupert to a hard stop, except I’m still living, even as the breaths feel like needles.

The next few days have been slow and soggy, as I watch through distorted eyes as they chop up my Rupert and take him away. Now there is just a scar in the earth where my love once stood. It has been silent these past few days, there have been no words to lull me to sleep, no songs to wake me, just the sharp noise of silence. But I still hear Ruperts words, telling me to escape, telling me to shatter the glass. I press my fingers to cold pane, still as ever, as a corpse. The people on the street are going about their lives; they don’t even seem to notice the missing giant. I tap my long nails against the glass just as he did, screech and scratch just as he did. All the while the people below go on and on. I tap out his songs like a Morse code, his words, his pleas, his screams. Turning, I look at the chair of a different wood, there by the desk. My fingers glide across the surface of it, and I wonder, is this what he felt like? Then a splitter sticks into my finger, and I observe it closely, but do not pull it. Instead, I look back to the chair; I grab it with firm hands, just like the green eyed man. I hear my loves voice a final time, telling me what to do, telling me how to escape. I lift the chair from its place and swing with full force at the pane, shattering it into millions. The sound is beautiful as they go falling down, down, down. The chair falls to the wooden floor and I put my head out the window. There is a smell, it is damp and cool in my face, and I remember; this is the smell of fresh air. I step out of the window onto the narrow ledge and look down to where my love once stood. The door behind me flings open with a great noise. All the people below look up, they point and stare, and finally see me. As all the sounds of the world mesh into one, through it all I hear the voice of my dear sweet Rupert, telling me what to do. With a single step my arms outstretched off the ledge down I fall, to the spot where my love once stood.

Author's Note

This was inspired by a picture I took of a cool window I saw in town. Please make any suggestions, this is a second draft.

Reviews

[Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere]

I've read your story and liked it. I loved the way you gave life to a tree, personificated him so he could talk and sing and love. I guess the outcome was inevitable. I would gladly read other work from you. :) Rudi