The Twisted Tree

by Rachel Burge

As people brush past me I get flashes of their lives – their memories and emotions – but it happens so fast I can’t make sense of it.

The noise is like a swarm of bees, all wanting to sting me. It’s not just the hubbub of conversation. The air sparks and crackles – it’s like their clothes know I’m here, walking among them.

Wool holds a person’s emotions but cashmere is different – it makes you feel them.

I look at the people around me: a white fur coat bristling with outrage; a chunky knit heavy with sorrow. I can’t tell what secrets they hold just by looking at them, but it’s hard to stop my imagination sometimes.

Man-made fibres don’t breathe; they throw things at you like a sobbing toddler too distraught to come up for air.

Brian takes out a book and cracks open the spine. Anyone who does that is not a good person as far as I’m concerned. It’s up there with cruelty to kittens and nose-picking in public.

The past will always haunt him. Pain like that stays with you; it seeps out of your pores and into the fibres of your clothes, and nothing can remove the stain of a soul.

There’s something creepy about busy places when they’re deserted, like a school at night with rows of empty desks, or a fairground with no blaring lights or music.

Lying here now, the darkness has a weight. It presses against my skin as I reach for the covers and curl into a ball. I long for the oblivion of sleep but my mind won’t let me.

Sheepskin doesn’t offer many impressions – it’s like a musical instrument that only plays one note, but that note is loud and true. It speaks of a person’s core essence, and Yrsa resonates warrior with every fibre of her being.

When the fog rises, run for home, Marta, my child. Dead men rise with the mist!

Whatever the shadows are, they’re in here now.

Don’t be afraid of the dark. I keep my eyes shut tight, too scared to move or speak. The voice whispers again. I know you’re afraid, but the darkness is your friend. I am your friend.

‘No one can tell the story of you, but you. Some people are gifted with a gilded tongue. They will tell you who you are with such conviction that you may actually believe them, but this is a reflection, not the truth, for the story of you is not yet written.’ She leans back. ‘You will find these voices in your head also. You will tell yourself how you are a poor victim. Pay no heed and instead look to your soul, for that is where you originate. You write the story of you every day with your thoughts, words and deeds. You create yourself. You get to decide your story. No one else. You.’

‘No one made you queen. You made yourself queen.’