Watch Your Step

T̸w̸i̸t̸c̸h̸ [ep. 7]

Rod spent the last half hour maintaining his pace —one two, one two— to calm himself down. No houses can be seen in a 5-mile radius, on the other hand, more trees that are perfectly apart greeted him along the road. But one space in between the trees made him saunter back. There must have been a tree standing there before. When he looks at the source of disarrangement, it tortures him. 

There it is, a tree stump. He jumps over it and notices there are cuts and marks on the portal of trees he went through. Like slits of eyes and X's in a treasure map. But what surprised him from behind was a glassy lake, inside the spiral of trees, twinkling over the bank of yellow grass. He removes his Caterpillar shoes and proceeds to dip his bare feet in the water. The cool water makes him want to pee. 

He stoops over to touch the crystal water and feels a cold sting when he picks up a smooth rock. He aims to throw it as far as he can. Whooosshh. Ripples of waves formed on the surface of the lake as the rock bounced on the water. It has such perfect circles that Rod couldn't fight the urge to count them too. As the crest of the ripples converges towards his legs, among the calmness of the water and the whispers of the trees, Rod hears a BAAANG—a thunder of gunshot in the forest—behind the eastern side of the lake.

Birds flock among the trees and the sound still echoes on the water—making every side of the lake with mossy glades vibrate. He doesn't count the ripples now because it's too many. Suddenly, he thought of running away from that place. However, when the waves die out, he peers down on the water and sees his reflection clear as day. At first, he rubbed his eyes and cast them down, then curiosity took over. What he sees all over his face, on his arms, and up to his neck are long thin lines. 

It begins to itch like a thousand ants crawling beneath his skin. Similar to the insufferable itch when his broken arm macerated when healing—only it's on every part of his body. Thereafter, it started to sting, until his image on the water became clearer. The air thickens and he feels like something is choking him again as he screams louder than the gunshot he had heard. Reflected on the clear water is his entirety covered with scrapes, slashes, cuts—open cuts.

He backs off, feeling his face, scratching his skin while almost tripping on a slippery rock. When he touches his arms and steadies himself to look at his reflection again, why, it is back to normal, and the cuts on his wrists are only scars too. But what really startled him was a meaty hand that grabbed his shoulder to keep him from dripping wet.

Rod tilts his head to see a woodsman with a full-grown beard and a maroon stain on his temple that is unmistakably fresh blood. He is holding an ax at his side which makes him more terrifying. Although, Rod thought he resembled someone with his face as ruddy as his flannel shirt and his bushy red hair.

"Who are you?" Rod says as he swerved for a distance, "What do you want?"

There happened to be a nearby lumberjack who had been chopping wood and heard his scream. "What happened to your arm?" he asks.

Rod's impulse was not to talk to strangers but because of his intimidating aura, he decides it would be best if he answered, "It's broken."

"I meant the other."

As the lumberjack proved to be inquisitive, Rod felt queasy by the minute.

"I'd better go."

But the lumberjack already caught a glimpse of the scars on Rod's wrist and he knew that those were deeper than the cuts he makes to chop the trees.

"Don't make your life a prison, kid."

Rod broke off, "What do you mean?" He looks at his wrist as if looking at a broken watch and then the man says, "You'll end up trapping yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The lumberjack grunts "Maybe it's too late," and ensues to gather firewood.

Rod remains ignorant. He scratches his head and stays on the edge of the lake. But as soon as the stranger is far enough, he grabs his shoes and tiptoes his soles on the jagged rocks like it's hot coal. He passes through the missing tree but he doesn't know if he would be relieved when he sees the trees don't have the cuts and marks like what he saw earlier. Maybe he was just being imaginative, like when he perceives a face in a rock or a shape in the clouds, but this time he is sure that all the trees are carved with an inverted cross.

The sun is setting when Rod returns to their street. He passes by the spooky cedar tree and sees his reflection in the window of the old house. He's currently staring at it when the door opens and sees his mother come out. He hides behind the dead tree and waits for his mother to make it past their gate.

Then when he peeps out to the old house once again and looks back once more to the rows of houses, his stomach lurched. His eyes must be deceiving him again because all of the houses are exactly like the old house. All wooden, unlit and eerie. It disoriented him. He can't choose one and all of a sudden, he can't remember where or when his mother entered one of the houses. But he knows it's just one house — this house in front of him — down before the moor. And the cedar tree beside him must have belonged to it. Above all, he already sees his books on the sun-faded overhang of the house on his right (the same books that got wet in the rain last night). He sees the pages opened as white as the square tiles of his puzzle.

"Aha," he exclaims to himself. It could be...it must be... So he managed to convince himself that it wasn't real, like all he's been going through for the past three months were mere hallucinations. Thereupon, he collects the books on the roof, puts them in a box, and brings them inside the house which (he presumes) is the real one. Or is it?

The electricity came back early to prepare for dinner. Rod wants to ask his mother about her business in the neighbor's house, but he becomes more distracted than ever. They are eating in front of each other, Mrs. Fletcher's back on the wide mirror in the kitchen, her phone on the table next to her plate. Rod can't see and can't think how it's uncomfortable enough because it's like you're eating with more people than there really are when you look at the mirror.

Although, he can't avoid his reflection against the white electrical light. The mirror that reflects the perfect arrangement of things used to be his safe object but now he has second thoughts about it. As he raises his spoon, his hand in the mirror falls behind in movement with his own. Then at a flick of the light, something went wrong, something he was sure would irritate him again. Looking eagerly, he didn't find anything amiss until he saw, for a fleeting glance, that his mouth in the mirror, on its own. . . it twitched.