The forest. The only place I felt truly loved. I place my calloused hand on the lean bark I am sitting under now, stroking its delicate features. The trees were the only ones who listened.
I lay my head back on one of the low branches and stare up into the patchwork of stars in the sky. I connect the dots, making my own sorts of constellations. I make one that looks like Loui, my frog. I make another that looks like Mia, my dog. Us three, we live alone out here.
In this forest of whispers. Where the trees talk in soft hums of mussed leaves. And crickets chirp in their sweet branches. Twinkling fireflies alight the forest, bringing it its own sense of security. Like its a home. A real home.
I lived in one once. A few years ago. It was blue, a grey door and white framing. I remember painting my room with my mom, pink, if I recall correctly. I tell the trees the stories I remember of them. I tell them over and over again so i won't forget.
Except for one memory. There is one memory that I have never told the trees. Even when they ask is their hushed voices why i don't go back.
I think it, but I never tell.
There is no going back.
I remember a night. When mom had just put me to sleep. I had kept my eyes closed without drifting off until she left, closing the door tightly behind her.
I had just gotten my new princess dolly, and of course I wanted to play with her. Her golden locks had just been calling me to braid them into tangles, and rip pieces of it from her head when I try to comb it out. I mean- calling me.
I had heard someone knock on the door downstairs. But that was normal, grown ups came over all the time, knocking on the door in their formal ways.
Mom went to greet them, the old door creaking open. And BANG. A loud echoing noise floated through the whole house. Seeming to bust a seam from the series of threads tied throughout it. I heard my dad shout, loud, angry footsteps on the brown wood floor. But he didn't make it. Another BANG charged through the house.
My 6 year old mind finally realizing something was wrong, I started to cry, silent tears streaming down my face. I heard the shooter come inside, I had to act fast.
I grabbed my princess doll, and opened the window with a low screeching noise. I prayed that the man or woman downstairs didn't hear it. I had a small tree next to my window that I had gotten used to climbing into my room. I grabbed the branch and hoisted myself out the window. I climbed down, hoping the shooter wouldn't see me. I ran into the street, and ran all night long. I ran until my feel couldn't go anymore. I ran until my little 6 year old lungs couldn't take another breath.
Then I stopped.
I was in a forest. This forest. I've lived here ever since.
And that is the story I have never told the trees, and never will tell them.
