A week of trekking through torrential rain has my energy depleted, but as I turn my eyes to the sky I see her. The oldest tree in existence. I fall to my knees beneath the terrifying branches that hang over me like the pain of time pressing on my chest.
In my delirium I get to my feet and press through the sinking mud to the base of the great tree. The wind laments it’s warning in accelerated oscillations, throwing rain through the darkness, but it’s too late now. I’ve come too far.
I throw a rope around the oak. The creatures dwelling inside flee their home. The fear paints their faces with each lightning strike. I tie the rope and jump down from the tree.
I pull with all my might. The rain falls through the canopy. The rope burns my hands until they bleed. The deepest roots that hold the fabric of the universe together start to vibrate and quiver. They Scream, “Why? Why are you doing this?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, but I don’t stop pulling. As I use every single cell in my body to pull, it starts to end.
The world begins to slow in it’s spin. The roots start to tear through the surface of the earth, but they desperately cling to the ground like a child’s hand as she’s being dragged into torture.
The world slows even more…
I know what I’m doing, but I can’t stop. I’m looking for forgiveness as I’m committing the crime.
The wind and rain and lightning all form a harmonious plee in the last second of time until:
The world’s stopped spinning.
In shame. In loneliness. I sit upon the centre of the universe. The great tree is nothing more.
Written by Randall Evans
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