Page 2 of Gift from the Tree

Holy shit.

There, on top of a bed of silks, lies an envelope with my name scripted in that same beautiful cursive, and a wax seal, stamped with the impression of a willow tree, keeps the fold closed and secured. With shaky hands, as carefully as I can, I peel the wax back and pull out a piece of parchment that looks like it’s been preserved from a time long forgotten.

Willow,

Happy birthday, filia mae.

Wear the necklace and don’t take it off, no matter what.

It will all make sense soon.

CC, xoxo

Who the fuck is CC? Necklace… What neck—Oh! Oh!

Cradled in the bed of silk, twisted and knotted silver cords wove around a stunning purple amethyst attached to a silver chain. Whoever left this for me, not only knew about my tree but obviously knew that purple is my favorite color and amethyst is my birthstone.

Slipping the chain over my wild, messy bun, I can’t, nor do I want to shake this feeling of home that’s crawling through me. This is the safest, strongest, and happiest I’ve ever felt in my life, but at the same time, it’s about to drive me fucking mental. The array of feelings I get every time I come to visit my tree leaves me feeling hopeful and hopeless more and more every day. The need, the want, for something I can’t identify has only been getting worse in the last month, and today is no exception. It’s the worst of them all.

Releasing my firm grip on the amethyst, I let it fall through the gap between my breasts and as soon as it touches my skin, it feels like death hit my body with all its might. Like Donald sent a hellhound to come and tear me to pieces before dragging my soul off kicking and screaming.

Water fills my lungs, leaving me gasping for air, and at the same time, my blood feels like it’s on fire, boiling me from the inside out. My feet are stuck in the ground, fighting quicksand I can’t see, and the winds are slinging me around as if I’m in the middle of a tornado tearing through Tornado Alley. No words come out as I open my mouth on a silent scream, mentally begging for this to end.

Fuck, please stop, stop, stop.

As if someone could hear my plea, as quickly as my own personal hell began, it ceases, leaving me gasping for breath and my fingers painfully digging into the ground. I peel my eyes open slowly, taking in my surroundings, just to find I’m in the same spot, on all fours in front of the willow tree.

I manically pat my body down, looking for signs of some injury from whatever the fuck that was I just experienced, but nothing. Absolutely nothing marks my skin.

Did I just imagine that? Are you fucking kidding me? I really am going batshit. Donald’s hit me in the head too many times.

“Willow, get the fuck here now.” The devil himself answers my thoughts not a moment later.

I can’t see him from where I am, but his voice echoes through the trees like he’s surrounding me, causing me to flinch. I know better, though, he’s standing at the edge of the tree line, not daring to belittle himself enough to walk through the beaten path to find me.

Shit.

Calming my frantic heart, I know there’s no way I can take my box back with me now where he can see it. He’ll flip his shit if he sees someone’s gifted me something so precious. He’d accuse me of whoring myself around and beat me until I gave him the name of whoever dared gift me something.

As I go to lift the necklace from my neck, my ominous, mysterious note filters through my mind. For some reason, the words ring true, bouncing through my skull on constant repeat, not allowing me to even consider the possibility of disobeying the demand.

Okay, not taking it off.

“WILLOW.”

“I’m coming now,” I holler bitterly.

Begrudgingly, I place my box in the junction of a lower branch and the trunk of the willow, hoping and praying it’ll be safe and undamaged until I have a chance to come back for it and hide it at home. I stuff my necklace back between my breasts and zip my jacket all the way up, concealing it completely. Hurrying out of the clearing, back into the thicker part of the woods leading to the estate, the warmth and fuzzies I just felt are replaced with a sense of dread.

Last night, I mouthed off to Donald in front of two of his little cronies and paid for it. When they left, I knew my punishment for that was about to cost me. It wasn’t the first time and won’t be the last my mouth has earned me a harsh hand. I talk shit and fight back as much as possible because I refuse to just lie and take it. He’s stolen everything from me. Not that I had much of anything to start with, but what I did was mine.

My life, my virginity, my hope. What few friends I had are no longer allowed around. Hell, I don’t even know if any of them are still in our town. So I’ll continue to fight until he finally kills me. Which I thought last night would be it.

I was hiding around the hall, eavesdropping on their goodbyes when he called me back into the study. As I entered, he was gazing out the French doors that lead to the pool, with a glass of liquor in his hand, swirling it around like he was the president pandering the plans for our nation or some shit.

I knew the little psycho had something up his sleeve by the bloodshot, crazed look in his brown, almost black eyes as soon as he turned to face me. His dull black hair was messy from constantly running his hands through it and his normally pale, sickly skin tone was flushed from the liquor. I tried to turn and walk out, but before I could take two steps, he had me by my hair, dragging me out the French doors.

When he released my hair, he spun me to face him and backhanded me so hard, I blacked out for a few moments. By the time I came to, he had a rope tied around my hands and another around my ankles, attached to a cinderblock.

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