The Roots That Bind Us

The ache that blossoms in her chest is as unforgiving as it is eye opening. Her shaking fingers brush against her sternum in a gesture which alludes both to her general disbelief, and hesitant acceptance.

Katia has been sick for weeks.

She holds back the tears that burbles up from that dark place within. A wellspring of emotion that erodes away her delicate sensibilities. The burn high in the bridge of her nose signals her impending failure at dignity. But, she’s used to that. Failure has been her trusted companion for years now – the one seemingly constant in her life. It’s comforting to have a familiar presence in this instance. She wills her bottom lip to still, raises her eyes to meet his, and cannot find the words which will set her free from this awkward moment.

As always, Caleb comes to her rescue.

She wants to rail against this small kindness – flee into the forest like a hare being pursued. Instead, she is planted in place. Her toes are entrenched within the earth, and the first tears to escape their bonds baptize her shoes with her sorrow.

“I’m gonna go back with the others,” he says kindly. Apologetically. “I’m sorry, Katia. I really am. I just – just don’t feel the same way you do. I hope…I hope this won’t change anythin’ between us.”

His tone is so out of place it makes her traitor tears stream faster; until they drip like a broken faucet from her chin. She can’t muster the words to make him stay – she isn’t quite sure she wants him to – so, he goes. The cabin isn’t far. The others must be wondering where they went.

The ache in her chest is powerful enough to make her gasp. She is fracturing, splintering into every cliché she’s ever heard concerning a broken heart. Uprooting herself, she bolts into the dusky woods. The trees are unsympathetic sentinels as they watch her flight into their ranks. She doesn’t care where she is going or where she ends up – she just picks a direction and runs.

Katia has been sick for weeks.

Sick of the uncertainty. Sick of asking herself questions that start with “What if…” and end in infinite question marks. Sick of the fantasy she had tended, lovingly, in her mind that would never come to fruition. Muscles pumping, eyes blurred, lungs wheezing – she feels nauseous and embarrassed and oh so sad…

Then, she is tumbling, tumbling, tumbling – falling head over heels down into a stream-filled ravine. She is the girl who tumbles. Tumbles through her choices, tumbles through time, tumbles through life – always head over heels. Just like she tumbled head over heels for him. Naïve girl. Sad girl. She had never seen her youth as a burden until now.

Cold water murmurs tranquil apologies against her skinned knees and scraped hands and bruised ego. She lifts her gaze to the rapturous gloaming melting through the shadowed forest. The weald is aflame with burnished gold that shifts to varying shades of bleeding crimson. Dark stains of night drip across the horizon like an artist’s careless brushstroke. The first shimmering stars glisten overhead.

Nature has no right being this beautiful in this moment.

A sudden wave of dizziness washes over her, and her stomach heaves in revolt. She gags, and heaves some more – until she’s spewing the contents of her stomach into the idyllic waters. She watches – mildly confused, mildly understanding – as flower petals float like vibrant coral and lavender boats through the stream’s riffle. They catch the current before braving deeper waters, and setting off into the last vestiges of sunlight. They sink before they make it around the bend.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, only to find a similar petal stuck to her lips. She’s having difficulties catching her breath. She staggers out of the water that has started to chill her to her very marrow, and goes downstream.

Breathless, she eventually finds herself in a large clearing inundated with wildflowers. She sinks to her hands and knees and screams into her fists, rocking, bleeding, feeling. Her chest burns, her nerves ache, her stomach churns as she finally recognizes the enormity of her situation. How could she have let it come to this? The sound of swishing pants has her whirling – treacherous hope blooms within her and she takes a relieved lungful of air.

The sight that greets her makes her keen like a wounded animal, and she buries her face in her hands, desperate to hide her features. It’s pointless. He knows her, Caleb’s brother.

Roland stands before her in all his stoic, resplendent, glory. Skin tan, clothes clean, features smooth – she has never felt dirtier in her entire life. He says nothing as he crosses the clearing; only stopping when he is a few feet away. He tilts his head to the side, brows slightly furrowed, as he stares. To say the silence stretching between them is deafening is an understatement. It is a thundering muteness. It is a toneless cataclysm. It is a vigorous quietude that is only broken by the sound of her retching.

Emerald eyes linger on the damp pile of twilight blossoms. She shudders and sits back, wrapping her arms around her skinned knees. Feeling small and insignificant, she can’t meet his knowing gaze. Words strike against the dam which are her lips. Slamming again and again upon them until she can feel her restraint breaking. Another failure to add to the growing pile.

“Is there something I can do for you?” she asks, sullenly. She sounds petulant even to her own ears, but she’s not in the mood for company. Her forehead is clammy and she can’t seem to swallow down enough air.

Katia has been sick for weeks.

“You are not well.” A statement of fact. His deep timbre resonates through her and she lifts her haggard face.

“No,” she says softly, gritting through the pain in her chest, “I am not well.”

Her stomach pitches and wet petals course from her lips like an autumn storm. She cries. He says nothing. Silently he moves to sit beside her, folding himself in an elegant fashion. His tousled, tawny hair flutters in the breeze. The night feels heavy. The forest holds its breath in anticipation. A yawning melancholy settles itself within her bones and she quiets.

She tips her head toward the phantasm of stars that dance and shimmer like nobility, and wonders if maybe, just maybe, another version of herself has avoided this terminal fate.

He follows her gaze. The moon is framed by wispy clouds high in the sky; its faint luminescence soaks the landscape. She can’t help but peek at him. In this moment, he is ethereal. He is untouchable. He seems lonely. Although they are more than acquaintances, they are not quite friends – and yet, she feels thankful that he is here all the same.

He sounds bitter as he asks, “Is this Caleb’s doing?”

Hearing his name hurts her. She gags. She doesn’t want to say the words that would condemn him – so, she says nothing. Her reticence is just as telling as any confirmation. He sighs.

“You know, he isn’t worth it,” he says to the stars, to the moon, to her. He says it with none of the usual sarcasm that she is familiar with. It makes her consider his words carefully.

“He was worth it to me.”

A small frown mars his otherwise perfect features. She finds him beautiful. The urge to take on the burden of his loneliness is immense. Perhaps in another life they could have…She stops the thought before it has a chance to grow. She has walked this path before and look where it got her.

She is panting heavily and there is an audible crack within her sternum. She barely catches enough air to shriek, and curls up into a ball. He begins to stand, to give her some privacy.

“Please,” she wheezes, “please don’t go. I don’t – I don’t want to be alone. I can’t.”

He gives her a slow nod, settles himself, and does not pull away when her hand reaches for his. She shudders and heaves more petals. Her insides squirm and she is breaking, changing, cleaving herself from her anatomy. His hand tightens around hers as she struggles for air. He becomes a statue, unmoving, ever watchful – he mentally chronicles this event.

Katia has been sick for weeks.

Roots shoot from her fingertips and toes, burying themselves into the earth. Her spine goes rigid and, from the center of her back, a sapling sprouts up and up and up. Twisting and growing at miraculous speeds, its trunk roughens and thickens and curls towards those ever-waltzing stars. Gnarled boughs wind out, and tangle in one another’s path as they create a wide canopy. Lavender and coral blooms burst from each branch in thick, glowing, ropes. The roots have gone from thin tendrils to large, knotted lengths that have dug themselves deeply within the soil.

Gone are her limbs. Gone is her torso. Gone is the girl who tumbles, and fights, and fails, and tries and tries and tries. She gives him a watery smile as her head is swallowed by the massive wisteria that she nurtured from her own heartbreak. Its broad branches almost reach the edge of the clearing on all sides. The wind sighs sadly as it rustles the blooms. Petals fall in endless torrents as the tree weeps.

Roland watches the transformation as an onlooker would a funeral. Silently. Respectfully. His hand and forearm are engulfed by the tangled roots that was once her hand – binding her to him. Carefully, he frees himself from her grasp. Stands. Then gazes upon the mournful wisteria that continues to glow and cry and reach for those distant dancers.

He turns, his footsteps inaudible, as he melts into the midnight woods.