words by Claire Peng, art by Anniston Li
And below me I saw I had grown, and I saw the flakes of bark sticking to my body like the extra scales on a snake that was ready to molt. And above me I saw I had a beautiful crown of verdant leaves, but there were so many that I could not see the blue sky above me. And then I saw that I could not stop growing and then there were more and more leaves and less and less sunlight. And then there was dark.
I awoke without fully waking and coated in the sticky substance that is nighttime sweat. The ghastly silhouette of the oak tree branches stretched across my bed. Still half-asleep, I turned to curse the perpetrator of my insomnia. Someone had pulled back the curtains of my window, and the glow of the full moon had invaded my bedroom like the rays of a stern lighthouse high up in the sky, dodging the bare branches of the oak tree to expose me with its fullness and clarity.
The air in my room had come to so much of a standstill that it started to ferment. This seemed to be the reason behind the headache that had begun to thump against my skull. I stared at the ceiling, hoping that pretending to be an effigy on top of a watery grave would trick the air into leaving. For a moment I thought it worked, but the confusion in my head came back, and I knew I could not remain.
I thus decided the best solution to my sleeplessness was to release the thick fog through my window and draw the curtains, blocking my celestial voyeur from watching me. I escaped my tomb of perspiration and walked to the window. As I undid the latch and raised the frame, I gained an inexplicable urge to crawl out of it and flee the humidity of my room.
Soon, I found myself sitting on the window ledge outside my room. The autumn air was dry and cold, piercing my clothes and chilling me. My feet dangled many yards above the grassy lawn. Under the lunar glow, I could see dew drops sparkle among the grass. And through the fog of my mind, a desire emerged to feel it. And so I did, pushing myself off the ledge and bracing for impact.
There was no impact, but I did feel the cold drops of water and thin blades of grass tickle my bare feet. Satisfied, I looked up to find myself not in front of the oak tree but in front of a house, a house I soon realized I had last seen ten years ago. At that time, I had been trying to hold onto it with my eyes through the backseat window of the car, telling myself that I was only going on a very long vacation. The moon shone upon my home, but my home did not require the moon to shine. A late-night party was underway, with many a car parked in the driveway. Like eyes and mouths, every window projected an incandescent glow, contrasting the warm, brown brick of my home’s exterior. A Japanese maple shaded the entrance, its leaves a fiery and lively red that contrasted the soulless, white pallor of the moon. The slight vibrations that camaraderie and laughter produce travelled through my home’s foundation and to the soil, causing the stalks of grass to quiver ever so slightly against my feet.
My thoughts tangled and twisted around themselves, each vying for attention and fighting against the others. Amid the hubbub, a general opinion seemed to emerge: I wanted, no, I needed to go inside. A force within me but that was not me took control of my limbs, and I stumbled towards the house.
As if welcoming me in, the door to the entrance was ajar, and I could see inside, past the screen door. A foyer lay inside with the potential for grandness but was currently splattered with the trivialities of youth. A staircase flanked by mahogany handrails and balusters led upstairs, but a hot pink backpack was slung around the first stately column of the railing. A tan rug, the color chosen specifically to match the staircase, was covered by toys of rather unaesthetic color and shape. Most egregious were the walls, which had been painted a tasteful beige, that were decorated by some aspiring artist given free reign with crayons. On those walls were humanoid figures that greeted the guests, with their mismatching eyes and perhaps unnatural skin colors of scarlet and cornflower.
Such was the home that I had long desired to return to, and the thoughts grew excited at the sight. I smiled at the unintentional messiness and colorfulness of the foyer. At that moment, two kids burst into view from the far end of the foyer, running after each other and towards the entrance. One of them, I realized, was my childhood friend. The other, the chaser, was me. He was slowed by the obstacles laying across the foyer, and little me reached out to claim my victory. He screamed, sensing his fast-approaching fate, but dodged my outstretched just in time by turning to sprint upstairs. Little me laughed in indignation and followed him. The mass in my mind told me I too wanted to run, both to feel the freedom and exhilaration it would grant my legs but also to go upstairs and see the rest of my home. And so, I grabbed the screen door handle, but as I turned it,
my friend and I disappeared, and the inside went dark. With the warm light went the scattered toys and pink backpack, and with the cold light of the moon came white, rectangular packing boxes that lay on the rug. The walls of the foyer were barren, my humanoids erased by someone’s diligent scrubbing. The concrete I stood upon stopped vibrating, replaced by the eerie quiet that extinguishes a soul. Once again, the house had returned to simply a place of shelter rather than a home.
“No!” roared the thoughts cacophonously. I could not pull out one explaining precisely why they were angry, only that they simply were. They were like Tantalus on his hundredth attempt for the ruby apple: they could not remember why they kept reaching, but they could only remember they were angry that they could not have it. More and more thoughts joined until they merged and fused into one furious mob. The pain from their collective scream was too much, and I felt as if my head were going to explode. I fell to my knees on the cold concrete entrance, defeated.
Above me, a single crimson leaf detached itself from the Japanese maple, twirling and flipping as if trying delay its departure but ultimately resting just atop my head. With it, I felt the mob lessened one member too. I looked up, and I saw more of them were leaving. They spun and meandered in their flight, reaching for the tree, yet landing on the ground as lightly as the first snow would. As they left, the pressure in my skull lessened as my thoughts slowly pulled away from the din.
Soon, the ground was blanketed in a scarlet sea. Through the bare branches of the old maple, I could see the moon as clear as I had from my bedroom window. It illuminated one thought in my mind, and I began to realize the true nature of the situation as Tantalus eventually would have. In this lucid state, I saw the degradation and decomposition of these cherished memories were necessary. They had drained me and kept me bound to a past that I knew I could never return. It was simply all a dream.
I wake, refreshed from my repose. The silhouette of the oak tree branches embraces me across my sheets. I turn to see the sun shining in between the bare branches, embracing the room with warmth to fight off the frigidity of an autumnal morning.
“Wake up, sleepyhead!” says my brother. He saunters into my room, carrying speakers blasting some horrific, ear-splitting music. After a careful survey of my room, he strategically places the noise machines in a place that will require me to get fully out of bed to turn off.
“You have two minutes to vacate this room,” he declares, “from then on, this will hereby be known as my office, and you are not allowed to return. Are you all packed and ready to go?”
I smile.
“Yes, I think I am.”
