One. Last. Dance.

A Story by Aukai

Lived it. Wrote it. End it-but never regret it.

The leaves don’t dance with the passing wind anymore-not the way they used to. Watching them gracefully flit and flutter on the gale used to soothe me. It was a peaceful constant in a chaotic world, but things are so different now. The gusts have grown angry, and the tree has grown defiant. What was once a seamless duet has become a contest of our outrageous demands. An orchestra of contempt causing the leaves whip and rattle with each clumsy crescendo. Their dance has dwindled into a relentless struggle. The cohesion giving way to conflict. My nerves share their pain with a heavy heart, one trying to outcry the other. They no longer belong. We used to sing, deep within our content. Now all that is left are the screams. Now, we no longer belong.

I want to run. The tree is defiant and poised, but I am frail. Each passing year compounds my reasons to flee, but I am slow, and the waves of agony are unrelenting. Each ebb and flow urges me to fight, but I am scared. How does one fight the tide? It’s a cycle as efficient as clockwork-cold and calculated. Where the tree stands, I cower, too weak to endure the battering winds. So I stay where it is safe, and where it never was.

The cycle begins anew.

The suns brightest rays have never burned the way she does. I find myself outside in the sweltering embrace of highest noon, just to avoid her fire. I search for solace in the shade of the tree. I huddle at its base, wincing as its bark digs deep into the fresh cuts on my soul. I do not fit. I do not belong. I beg the tree to lend me its strength. I ask it to teach me its ways, but the tree is silent. It lends me only its shade. It has grown without help. I must grow without help. I step out of the shadow and back into the stifling heat. Back into my world aflame. My walk home along the trail feels like dying. Each step crying through torn muscle and hope. They beg me not to return, but I must. I cannot run. I cannot fight. So I must endure. I must return to where I belong, and where I never did.

The days are now shorter.

The leaves are changing now. They are wilted and discolored like the many bruises of my failures. Like the wounds of my shortcomings they soon fade and fall, a piece of me dying with each. But not the tree; it is stoic. The days are neither hot nor cold. They just are. My respite. A chance to catch my breath. Just the failing shade and mounting darkness. I shed the pain of my past to the ground so they may shrivel with the leaves. I must prepare for the growing cold. I must brace for the storm yet to come. And as each year since passed; I await the death that looms at my door, but never enters.

The sun is gone, but the wind is burning.

Now the tree and I are barren. We are reduced to brittle bone and bark. There is no warmth in this cold, but that is not why I shiver. There is a monster under my bed, but that is not why I tremble at night. The stars seem to fall like the leaves once did. Their ivory bodies litter the ground in great tides. A few cling to my window to see me. Perhaps they are the ones who hold my wishes. The howling wind drowns out my screams, but they know the air within my room is far less forgiving. They cry for me, soon fading away with my unanswered prayers. Gone with the storm, but not my blisters. In time my scars will all fade, and never will.

I wake in the new dawn.

New pain for new life. With improved vigor she teaches me this. I wonder how much this renewal hurts the tree, if at all. No. The tree is impervious. It is tired of the screams and the struggle. It shakes the frost of fear from its body with sheer will. It belongs where it chooses to belong. I must embrace what I am meant to be. I must choose to belong. My terror turns to clarity. I am no longer afraid. I am thankful. Where once I was broken; my soul has mended beyond harm. My skin cracks and tears, only to bind together stronger than before. The flames no longer burn, they build. The jagged edges of my anger are tempered to a diamond edge. My sword. Each thrashing turns tissue to scars, and scars to armor. I am strong now. I am ready. Ready to shatter this sequence and grind away the gears of repetition. No longer cold. No longer calculated. I am ready to fit. I am ready to belong. The sun will return with her rage; the sum of their inferno, and I will divide her from its power.

I am ready to make the leaves dance once again.

The days are now as vibrant as my spirit. The sun-rays barrel down with blurring intensity, but my armor does not burn. I lean my back against the tree. The crags and curves of its bark fit perfectly within the grooves of my countless scars. We are one. We fit. And we are finally happy. I stare up at the leaves. A gentle breeze caresses the skin I thought to be without feeling, and I shudder. This is what it means to belong. This is how it feels to watch the leaves once again dance with the wind.

And so we dance under the tree. Under the leaves. And we scream one last song.

She is colder and warmer at the same time. Our screaming has stopped, both inside and out. There is no longer the feud. No longer the struggle. I press against her in the trees shaded silence. Her eyes slowly close one. I gaze up at her and kiss her ankle, forever thankful for making me strong. Forever in her debt for allowing me to grow, and being the storm that has taught me to endure. I want her to come with me. I want her to leave this terrible place with its terrible past, but this is where she belongs. This is what she deserves. I will miss her unbearably. Her touch, her teachings, even the screams. I lift my pack over one shoulder, careful not to disturb her sleep. The sun is setting now, but there is always tomorrow. A new day. A new town. A new cycle. The road ahead is full of endless chances to grow and learn. I know I will not find another like her, but there are many more who deserve a chance. There are many more who deserve one last dance. I gently nudge her leg as I make my way down the trail, stopping briefly to turn and wave goodbye. She does not wave back, but I know she sees me. I want to remember her just like this. Just like the leaves; swaying and dancing in the wind…forever.

© 2017 Aukai

Author's Note

I am an amazing dancer-she would testify to that if she could

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Cyprian Van Dyke

I liked your details, they really painted pictures to the mind's eye. " There is no monster under my bed, but that is not why I tremble at night." - is a really cool line. But did you mean to say that "There is NO monster," it would make more sense if you said, " There is a monster under my bed, but that is not why I tremble at night." Anyway, I enjoyed the story. Tyfs!!!