Trespasser

My eyes flutter open, awaken by the soft glow of the sun’s ray invading through the curtain. Black out curtains, my ass. The morning haze fogs my mind and it takes a minute before I realized, the bed feels lighter. Four years of living together and I’ve come accustomed to the weight of another person lying next to me. “Yalissa?” Her name scrambles out of my mouth, a jumble mess of letter. I try again, more awake. “Yalissa.” No response. Where could she be? My brain still processing from its stroll in dreamland. I sit up, feeling each strand of my brown hair fall over my bosom. Better find a shirt first. I push the heavy quilted covers off to the side and reach for my beige colored T-shirt. Where is Yalissa? Throwing the shirt over my head, I push my hair out and let it fall on my back. My head turns to my cell phone displaying the time and the date. 7:42. December 25th. Shit. It’s Christmas.

Yalissa loves Christmas. Every aspect. The songs. The trees. The presents. Me, personally, I could care less. Not religious and don’t care for commercialized holidays. But then again, which holidays are not commercialized? Knowing Yalissa, she’s probably by the tree, oogling over the lights. That damned tree. Dismissing my concern for her, I walk to the bathroom to prepare for the day.

Freshly made up and presentable for any company, I head to the living room. The pungent scent of pine fills the air, chokes me.  The tree’s shadow towers over the furniture with monstrous display of Christmas glee. Why did we decide to go with a real tree? Isn’t that harmful for the environment? Yalissa wanted it. And I love seeing my queen smile.

* * *

“All these suck,” Yalissa spat while tree hunting.

Daylight dwindled. We had tried other vendors. Each tree in stock resembled something from “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” No amount of decorations would have ressurected the scrawny, spiny, pieces of shit. I offered to buy an artificial tree. One we could reuse every year. “Chloe, we must have an authentic Christmas. It’s tradition.” She batted her brown hazelnut eyes. She knows how to persuade me.

We ended up driving further north to a pine tree farm set on Native American land. When we arrived, the hours of operations had expired. A clear sign indicating NO TRESPASSING stood like the bulk-build of a bouncer at a night club. No entry for you. Two choices remained. Resign and return the next day, or take matters into our own hands. Driving over one hundred miles for a tree, losing the race against sunlight, left us only one immoral option. Take matters into our own hand.

“You got the axe, right?” Yalissa confirmed, popping the door to the trunk.

“Yep,” I scrambled out of the passenger side, dug through the contents, and pulled out the axe. “Ready. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Odd how there’s not fence around the farm,” Yalissa observed. She flicked on the flashlight as we walked past the entrance.

“Hey, don’t discredit the sign. I’m sure it works wonders at preventing theft.” I whispered. We chuckled. 

Yalissa flashed her flashlight in a sweeping motion over the area. A gentle wind puffs white powder in the air. Icy snowflakes grazed my cheeks, delivering a sting of shame. “Maybe this is a—”

“Over here,” Yalissa said. I follow her voice. The tree stands in front of us. I stared at it. A howling voice prodded my mind, repeated a Native American word I couldn’t comprehend. The one word pinched a nerve of fear in me.

“Yaliss, I don’t think we should,” I mumbled. My body chilled by the wind and the word. 

“Come on, it’s perfect.” She grabs the axe away from me and started to chop. “I should be done soon.” She spat between strikes.

I stood frozen. The eery word swirled in my mind. Embedded in the soft howl of the wind. Over and over. Matching each thunk of the axe when Yalissa struck the tree. Amplifying as she continued. A loud crack thrusted me back to reality. The tree fell. Shattered any sense of safety within me. We hauled it back to the car, tied it, and drove home in silence. Trespasser. Guilt faded the further we drove from the farm.

* * *

I scan the tree, disdain pulsing through my veins. Various colored balls sporadically placed throughout the branches. Tinsel dripping down the tree. Lights wrapped around the tree, flickering and blinking randomly. I sneer. Fuck Christmas.

“Yalissa. Where are you?” I just want to get this day over with. I look over my shoulder towards the kitchen. She’s not there. No pot stirred. No meal prepped. Nothing. I step towards the kitchen.

“Ouch!” A sting on my calf. I examine my leg. A small bead of blood forms. How the fuck—? A pine needle lies on the floor.

I glance back at the tree, my eyes narrow. Flowing from the crown down to the carpet of needles on the floor. The unwelcome mat to the void beneath the tree. It should be empty, but… What’s that? Barely visible through the darken pits of the tree. It can’t be. Impossible. I squint. A present sits. Waiting. Anticipating me to finally notice it. Yalissa, what have you done? A remorseful pebble plummets in the pit of my stomach, realizing I had not bother to get a gift for Yalissa. We had agreed on no presents for this Christmas.

Shaking my head, I walk to the kitchen. The present weighs on my mind. Do I become greedy and rush to open the gift without Yalissa here to watch? Or wait for my love one to return from wherever she is? I should wait. She would love that. Everyone wants to watch you unwrap their gift and express your gratitude for their efforts. That’s the etiquette, right?

“Yalissa. Where are you? I see the present you got me. Come out so I can open it.” I say, standing in the kitchen, no, on the threshold. That slim area separating the living from the kitchen. 

Trespasser. 

My heart races, hearing the whispered word in my ear.

Instinctively, I spin around. No one. It returns. The chilling thought runs through my mind like a melodic chant, forcing me to glance towards the tree…again. Over and over the word repeats. A hypnotic calling. 

When my conscience wakes up, I’m standing, inches away from the perilous pine. I shudder. Kneeling down to the floor. Eying the present once more. It sits next to the tree stand, hidden in the dark abyss. My arm stretches out for the gift, grasping at any piece of loose ribbon slithering its way down towards me. Almost…got…it. The ribbon teases my fingertips at every swipe until I clamp it between two fingers. Adding more weight on my elbow, I inch the present toward me. A fluid flows beneath my elbow. The tree’s lower branches shield the light from providing a clearer visual. Must’ve spilled the water from the tree stand. All my focus reverts back to freeing the present from its lightless prison. Tug. Lost the ribbon. Clamp, tug. The contents must be heavy. Clamp, tug. What’s in this thing?

As the Christmas sunlight washes over the gift, my eyes widen. The acrid smell of iron punches my face. Blood covers my arm and drenches the bottom of the gift box. Fear wrenches in my stomach at the sight. A stream of blood creeps out from under the tree where the box rested. Startled, I bolt backward on my buttocks to the coffee table.

“Yalissa! What the fuck? What kinda of sick joke is this?” Similar to before, no answer. Anger steals my demeanor. “Yalissa! Where the fuck are you?”

Every strand of nerves shaking, I stare at the blood-soaked box. At the top, near the neatly tied ribbon, a tag sticks up. I can make out the first two letter from the table. “C…H…” it reads. No. It can’t…be for me? I inhale deep breaths, grounding myself. Clearing my mind. This has got to be some kind of twisted joke. I shake me head at my own rationalization. Yalissa never enjoyed horror. The sight of her own blood makes her pass out. Then who? Curiosity plucks at the back of my mind. Nudging me closer to the iron-stench of the box. I crawl closer to the insidious box. The words on the tag become readable “For Chloe. Trespasser.” 

Too afraid to lift the box, I slide it further away from the tree. I pull the ribbon off the box, forcing it from the center to the corner using my fingertips. Setting both hands on either side of the present, I lift the top. My right hand covers my mouth instinctively. I recoil, refusing to believe my eyes. Coiled inside, marinating in burgundy liquid, lies what appears to be…intestines.

“Yalissa! Where are you?” I scramble to my feet. Turn to search for my love. Something grips into my left leg, piercing into the flesh. It yanks me back towards the tree. I face-plant, forehead first, on the hardwood floor. Narrowly missing the coffee table. Stars flash over my head as my body slides away from the table. Twisting my body, I discover my assailant through my dizzying vision. The tree. The fucking Christmas tree! My right leg kicks, connecting with the branches. Until the tree grips my foot, branches impale my skin, ripping the flesh off the bones. The pain forces a scream. A hoard of pine needles impale my face. Needles and branches strip away my flesh, consuming it like a Christmas breakfast. Bones crack. The pain intensifies as the tree sucks my life away. My vision darkens as the last words ring in my ears: Trespasser.