Page 1 of Gift from the Tree

One

Willow

Fuck me, I’m so tired of being confused every time I walk into these woods.

The sun’s just beginning to set as I hastily make my way to my favorite tree in the woods behind my childhood prison. It’s a random-ass willow tree planted in a clearing, surrounded by huge old oak trees. It obviously doesn’t belong, but its presence fills me with a sense of unconditional love, and the unnatural tugging in my chest tells me that good things have happened to me here.

I just can’t fucking remember them. Or maybe I’m having a stroke, a heart attack possibly. That seems more likely than imaginary tugging and feelings.

Especially feelings I’ve never experienced…unconditional love.

What the fuck is that?

I’d get my ass beat for asking for a hug.

I learned my lesson at a young age to never ask for anything. No gifts, trips, quality time, love yous, anything. If I can name it, I don’t ask for it. So, although today’s my twenty-sixth birthday, I haven’t asked for or said shit about it, just casually informed my dickhead of a husband I was taking a walk. This is my birthday present to myself. A walk to my hideaway, my spot that I can escape to without the worry or threat of getting my ass beat half to death. So I’ll enjoy it on my special day for the little while that I can.

For twenty years, I’ve endured beating after beating. Broken bones, black eyes, bruises that are blamed on clumsiness even though every piece of shit in this community of rich snobs knows the truth of what’s going on behind the doors of my home. My father, Franklin Abott, is a “prominent” member of society with politicians, cops, judges, and doctors in his pockets disguised as his best friends. They all grew up together, so I guess in their own little corrupt, evil, fucked-up kind of way, they are best friends. They’d just stab each other in the back in a heartbeat if it came down to it.

That’s why as soon as I turned eighteen, I tried and failed miserably to run away. The sheriff dragged me back to my father’s steps kicking and screaming, to which everyone acted as though my father was the victim for having to deal with such a difficult teenage girl. No more than a month later, my signature was forged, and I was married off to one of the judge’s psycho sons and moved into the estate right next door. Resulting in the daily beatings I was receiving from my father becoming so much more.

Lost in angry thoughts of how shitty my life is, mentally creating different scenarios of how I’d make Donald, the husband, and my father’s lives hell if given the chance, I didn’t notice the box sitting at the bottom of the tree with my name engraved across the top.

As I gaze down at it, a cold sweat sweeps through my body, causing me to freeze.

Fear.

Fear that my hiding spot’s been discovered, and this is some cruel joke Donald’s playing on me. A preview of what’s to come tonight when I return from my walk or a continued punishment for letting my anger slip last night. I’m not sure anything can top that level of cruelty, though.

What the fuck is this?

Just open the box.

He isn’t going to jump out at you. Or he might.

Look up in the tree and make sure he isn’t standing over you now.

I whip my head up so fast, looking through the sprawling branches, that I’m surprised I don’t snap my own neck, but it’s become a natural reaction at this point to go straight to panic mode. I live in a constant state of paranoia, just waiting to be attacked at any moment.

Deep breath.

The psycho fuck isn’t here.

Deep breath.

His handwriting isn’t this nice.

Deep breath.

I don’t even know if he can spell my name. Stupid fuck.

My shit-talking inner dialog calms the panic and fear that consumed so much of my attention a moment ago, allowing me to realize how truly beautiful the box is. The light yellowish-brown color is so similar to my willow tree, I would’ve sworn it was cut from the trunk if I wasn’t standing in front of it.

On the fine, smooth surface, my name is carved in the most eloquent cursive script and my throat closes as I choke back tears. The pull again in my chest telling me someone who truly loves me left this here for me to find, yet I don’t have anyone in my life who cares for me enough to leave me something so personal and lovely, and I haven’t even opened it to see what’s inside.

One more deep breath.

As I slowly exhale, it seems that everything in the forest holds their inhale. Even time seems to hold its breath, waiting for me to unhook the delicate bronze hinge that holds the secret contents secured inside. The slightest creak, a whisper of wood on wood, sends shivers racing down my spine.

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