THE PINE TREE

Natalia Danjon

There it is, I can see it quite well, standing tall outside my window.

The lamppost towers to the right, with a web of electric cables spreading in every direction. All around, the pine branches twist over the concrete, and on stormy nights, they lash against the first-floor window. The treetop has long outgrown the cabin, but I still remember a sapling I dug out in the forest. That was a different time, though, when the wild garden welcomed a girl with cheeks that never knew the salty streaks.

Each day, I creak open the fence to check how well the lamppost is dug into the soil. I lean on it with both hands, then thrust my body’s weight against it, not that it’s a lot. The lamppost never budges, not even by an inch.

Then each night, when I lie in the foggy state before sleep takes over, it falls on me, crushing and crunching my bones as it pins me to the bed. Like a clamp, the lamppost locks me fast with its web of cables. I scream, plead, and wiggle like an overturned insect, legs scraping air, but never ease myself from under it.

Anticipation is worse. The moment wooden planks start to screech. Each painful moan of the two flights of stairs brings horrible gooseflesh to my arms and freezes my lower back. 

And then, there are the bruises—scattered across my arms, neck, hips. I rub in cream, only to watch the bruises fade from purple to green, the eye colour that makes me shudder. Besides, purple’s much more attractive. Sometimes blood stains the sheets. I’m almost sure this is my blood. The place I’m sure to find my blood is on toilet paper in the morning. It chills my skin to wipe it away.

Last night was different. The concrete slab expelled air from my lungs and silenced my desire to scream. Helpless, the pine needles clawed at the glass like a wildcat. A storm was coming.

In the morning, I reinforce the lamppost with shovelfuls of soil and dig under the pine tree—the lovely tree I know is on my side. I’m careful to dig around its roots. They’ve grown so strong. Fifteen, thirty-two, sixty, eighty-five shovelfuls. The pile of soil reaches my knees. Does it have to be six feet under?

The day started wet. Heavy clouds loom over the forest. Need to act faster. I slam my body—what’s left of it—against the rough concrete. The lamppost feels sturdy. You never expected me to come from behind. Never saw a shovel, did you? Even in the storm, the sharpened edge gleams. The ground squelches as the lamppost lands flat in the mud.

It thrashes in despair as I drive my shovel down, thinking of the horrid, horrid, horrid things it did to me. The cables shear off with a satisfying crunch. No knives in the cabin—an echo of the monstrous voice rings in my head. But a shovel’s all I need.

Adrenaline hammers my temples as water floods the gouges the nails left in the soil. I double-check, but there’s no movement.

Raindrops pelt the gap between the roots. People might wonder about the lamppost. It always acted self-important. Strong. People are awfully curious, and nature detests empty spaces. I haul a mixing bucket out of the shed as the tree screeches, chanting its dull wooden song. My shovel keeps a gentle rhythm while I hum, which I never do.

I mix the concrete in a wheelbarrow. It’s lumpy at first, but after a bucket of water from the well, it slurps. Hungry. Rain falls sideways, and the branches swish violently. But not one brushes me while I work. The pine tree’s my friend. Dragging the mixing bucket and tilting it over is hard, but women rarely know their strength.

When I’m done, there is very little blood. I rinse the last splodges in the shower, watch red trails disappear down the drain, then feed my soiled dress to the fire. I’m almost sure this is not my blood.

At night, for the first time in years, the planks don’t creak. There’s no blood on the toilet paper in the morning either. My breaths are shallow, but each inhale brings relief. Behind the window, the pale yellow light from the lamppost is gone, and the puffy branches sway in the breeze.

In a couple of weeks, fresh grass springs from the soil. I mount a purple chair over the bald patch, drink tea, and celebrate how I eased myself to freedom. A pinecone falls with a soft pop. I pick it up. It’s warm, wet. It’s not a pinecone. It never was.