Shelves of Bright White Mushrooms
TW: implied abuse and murder
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The cool mist of the forest clings to my skin as I take in my surroundings. Despite the overcast sky, the colors of the rainforest are vibrant. Emerald green ferns laden with dewdrops and impossibly tall trees with rusty red bark adorn the landscape. Shelves of bright white mushrooms grow from a downed log just off the dirt path. Birdsong is the only sound in the otherwise silent forest.
"Hurry up, Thomas, you're going to make us late again." The sharpness of my father's tone pulls me out of my reverie. I look up and see that he is well ahead of me. He stares at me with eyes narrowed in a look of annoyance. For a moment I wonder why he even bothers coming here if he's just going to rush through it, but then I remember it's best not to challenge him. Arguing with father is like arguing with barbed wire.
"Thomas... I'm not going to ask again."
"Coming." I adjust the straps of my backpack and speed up to join him. I'm painfully aware of the soft crunch of the dirt path beneath my feet as he silently watches my approach.
“What do you want?” The gruff voice startles me and I’m suddenly back in the diner. I look from the stained glossy menu I have presumably been staring at and see the disinterested face of the server. My heart races as I realize I haven’t actually looked at any of the options. In hopes of curbing my embarrassment, I decide to play it safe and order something simple.
“Uh… pancakes I guess.” The server scribbles my order in a small notepad.
“Alright, pancakes comin’ up.” He then wipes his hands on a filthy apron and walks away. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and rest my hands on the table. I quickly realize my mistake as my skin makes contact with the sticky surface and I grab my glass of ice water to try to use condensation to clean myself. I’ve always had problems with textures. The diner itself is in similar condition to the table, most things are covered in some form of grime, the kind of grime that some people insist adds to the character of the establishment. Before I know it a steaming plate of food is put in front of me. The smell is intoxicating- I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. As I eat my meal I notice that there aren’t many other customers. That’s to be expected I suppose, it’s that time of morning when the sky is that deep shade of navy blue, a preview of the coming day. I glance at my watch- 4:22- I need to leave soon if I am going to get to the forest on time. Tardiness is the peak of delinquency, Thomas. I scarf down the rest of my food in a way that I know my father would scold me for and pay in cash. Luckily the diner is the kind of establishment that still lacks a card reader so I don’t get weird looks for it.
It isn’t long before I’ve made it back onto the highway, the sky is beginning to fade into the wine-maroon shades of first light. I prefer to drive in silence, so the gentle pitter patter of precipitation and the rhythmic whirring of the windshield wipers are my only company. After a while the road starts to melt into itself and I enter that sort of trance-like state of long, uneventful road trips. The only indicator that I’m getting closer to my destination are the signs along the highway. My grip on the worn steering wheel grows tighter as I get closer and closer to the forest. My solemn task approaches.
I slow down to pass through a little town, more of a hamlet really. Calling it a town is generous as it’s only a handful of dilapidated buildings and a gas station. It’s the kind of town that would be forgettable to most people, little more than a glorified speed bump on a trip, but I remember it intimately. This is the final marker, the last stop before the forest. There’s a quaint country restaurant that my father would always insist on going to. A bit strange since he normally detested folksy establishments, but then again he was always a man of contradictions. A man from a blue collar background who hated the poor. A man who prided himself on a love of nature but never took time to enjoy it. A man who claimed to care for his children, yet was only ever present in the wrong ways.
I take some deep breaths when I realize I’m clenching my jaw. He’s gone now, he has no power over me. The moment I’m out of city limits I increase pressure on the gas pedal. Only an hour left before I’ve arrived. I take some deep breaths to try to calm myself.
My efforts are thwarted as the blue and red flashing of a sheriff’s car overwhelm my vision. My heart hammers in my chest. How long were they following me? I pull over as soon as I’m able. My stomach drops like a stone as I glance in the rear view mirror and see a severe looking woman exit the vehicle and approach. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. I do my best to center myself, then I grab the hand crank and roll down the window just as she walks up.
“Um- uh, hello! Uh- w-what can I do for you, officer?” I’m sweating buckets. There’s no way she saw it, right? I secured the trunk. Nononono everything is going to be ruined and it’s all my fault-
“Did you know that you’ve got a tail light out, sir?” I hope the relief doesn’t show on my face. That’s it?
“Oh, no I didn’t. Th-thank you for the uh- the heads up.”
“Just get it fixed.” She sounds like father, cold and disinterested yet somehow scathing. Deep breaths, he’s gone now. I made sure of it.
“Y-yes ma’am.”
“Good, have a good day, sir.”
“I will, thanks.” I try to smile but it probably comes off more like a grimace. Once she’s returned to her car I roll the window up and cautiously return to the highway.
There’s a strange feeling that comes over me when I pull into the parking lot, a sort of unexpected numbness that overtakes my nerves. It’s almost as if the finality of it all eclipses the nerves I’ve been feeling. I find a spot in the least trafficked parking lot, one so far away from the trails that nobody wants to park there unless it’s a last resort. It’s perfect for my needs. I back into the farthest spot in the farthest lot. It was father’s favorite spot, close to the woods and far away from the riff raff, but it is a matter of practicality. I can’t afford having anyone see me. The next few moments are a blur.
Birdsong is the only sound as I otherwise silently open the trunk. It’s strange how quickly he becomes an it when wrapped in blue tarp.
I adjust the straps of my backpack as I trudge onward. I’m painfully aware of the soft crunch of the fallen leaves and twigs as I drag it over the forest floor.
The cool mist of the forest clings to my skin as I take the shovel out of my bag.
Emerald green ferns laden with fat dewdrops and impossibly tall trees with rusty red bark seem to watch me as I dig.
I should have worn gloves, the dirt beneath my fingernails is irritating. I’ve always had problems with textures.
Shelves of bright white mushrooms grow from the downed log I drag to cover the patch of dirt.
It's done.