The Bleeding Tree

The Bleeding Tree

  Stacey Thompson

  Copyright 2013@ Stacey Thompson

  No part of this work can be copied without the authors permission.

  Published by Goddess Publishing

  www.staceythompsonauthor.info

  The wind in Bay's hair made him smile. His bike was the best escape from the fighting at home. The sun was creeping behind the trees and the air crisp on his skin. He skidded to a stop before the edge of the old cemetery.

  This place scared him although he didn't quite know why. After all, they were just dead bodies. Nothing to fear in that his grandma always said. It's the live ones you have to worry about.

  The cemetery was like any other with relatives of the towns best and some from way back to the founding of the town, but Bay never really cared much for that. He only listened to the stories of the tree. The one that bleed and no one would ever say why.

  What was left of the sun faded behind away and the street lights popped on with their yellow glow. Bay sighed, but turned around and headed for his home. The old house sported peeling paint and a crooked porch. The door was painted an ugly dark green, but the paint recently started flaking from it as well as though the house didn't want to be better looking and only wanted to radiate the misery Bay felt from living inside it.

  Bay checked the driveway hoping his stepdad, Mark, wasn't home yet. A sigh of relief escaped his lips when he realized his mom was the only one home. He dropped his bike and walked into the house. The living room housed a light blue couch with no legs sitting off to his left. They had covered the walls with paneling to hide the holes Mark made when something set him off. The paneling was a wood color, but made the room look more dismal and pathetic than before. The green carpet was so old and used, it didn't even really look like carpet anymore. His mom was sitting at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette. Her stringy blond hair hung slightly into her clear blue eyes.

  “What took you so long?” She said, quietly.

  Bay glanced at her and shrugged. “I just took my time.”

  “You better not be down by the cemetery again. The caretaker doesn't take to kids playing in there.” She took a puff of her cigarette and tapped her fingers on the table. Bay hated that sound. It normally meant she didn't believe him. He didn't want to deal with that right now.

  “I know mom. I wasn't in the cemetery.” Bay was telling the truth. He didn't actually set foot in there. He only wondered past on occasion.

  “Good. We have enough trouble. Better get something to eat and make yourself scarce before your father gets home.” She leaned back and finally met Bay's gaze.

  “Mark is not my father,” He snapped.

  “He's as close as you're ever going to get,” she hissed. Bay walked away. The last thing he wanted to do today was get into a fight. Bay wanted to slam the door to his room, but to do that meant everything on his wall would fall, so he closed the door lightly and shook his head. Bay loved his mom even with all her faults. She was his blood, but Mark needed to go. If only he could convince his mother. But that was a lost cause.

  Bay's room was as sad looking as the rest of his home. His bed was simply a mattress and box springs on four cold cinder blocks. The blankets worn to barely anything. While people he knew in school possessed game systems and televisions, he had books he'd found for free at the library and other choice places. Reading was cheap and gave him a chance to get out of the world he lived in.

  The sound of the front door slamming brought him out of his thoughts. His fists tightened as he heard the footsteps of Mark crossing the living room floor to the kitchen where his mother was.

  “There's nothing to eat,” his stepdad almost yelled. Bay sat on his bed and listened for it, the moment when things would go to hell and he'd have to run. He tried to stop Mark once, but it never ended well for Bay. His mother would either curse him out or he'd get the shit knocked out of him.

  “I just got home a little while ago,” Bay's mother said, faintly. Bay could hear her moving things around to cook something, but it didn't take long to trigger another fight. He heard her body slam against the wall and grabbed at his jeans. She screamed as Bay's stepfather punched her so hard Bay could hear the impact in his room. He waited to see if his mother would react, but there was no sound. Bay glanced at the window on the far side of his room as he heard his stepfather's footsteps pounding the floor up the hallway. He knew what would happen next. Bay grabbed the wood hard back chair and wedged it under the doorknob just as it started to turn.

  “You better open this door, boy or it will be worse than you've ever had before.” The words echoed in the room and Bay gritted his teeth. He pulled the window open, letting in cold air and leaves floating through the air. They danced into the open window and floated around him before slowly going back through the window. Bay watched them and squinted his eyes. It was almost as if the leaves were talking to him, offering him a safe place to go if he'd only follow them.

  The door opened a little and his stepfather pushed his arm through the door. Bay glanced back to him before jumping through the window and running to the front of the house. He grabbed his bike, ignoring the yells from inside the house. Bay knew he didn't have much time. If his stepfather caught him, he'd get drug back into the house and then beat.

  Bay jumped on the bike and pedaled as hard as he could until he couldn't hear the screaming of his stepfather through the air rushing by him. He glanced at in front of him, seeing the same dancing leaving blowing in the wind. He watched them and finally felt safe for the first time in a long time.

  He didn't realize where he'd stopped until he was in front of the twisted dark tree in the middle of the cemetery. Bay followed the twisted trunk up to it's branches. Each branch seemed to stare at him with human eyes. The tree creaked and growled in the light wind as though it was telling Bay its story. He let his eyes fall to the bottom of the trunk where he though he could see red handprints etched in the bark.

  He stepped back in fear and tripped on his bike, falling backwards. He felt his head hit something hard and then everything went dark.