"A Life" by Rylan Jackson
Content warning: brief references to suicide.
A Life
There is a tree.
It bears red and yellow leaves. Bark as white as the clouds that straddle the sky. It basks in the glowing warmth of sunlight. He lays beneath its color in a coveted shadow. Limbs stretch toward a distant horizon. He watches the wooden fingers reach to the rising sun. He examines the way they curve on their ends, as if beckoning. He imagines that they are the fingers of gods.
A meadow surrounds him. Flowers dazzle as far as the eye can see, purples and greens and blues and yellows. There is no trace of civilization. It is just him, the tree, and the wind that blows a crisp kiss against his cheek. Sometimes an animal too. It notices him and stares with suspicious eyes. It leans down, taking soft grass into its mouth. He beholds life that thrives.
It is this place that he hates the most.
WHITE
Darkness. Then light. Bright, harsh, scalding the flesh and burning the eyes. He cries. Everything is new. Warmth suddenly envelopes him, and he peers into a face’s mirror. There, he finds brief peace.
Life bounces him on its knee relentlessly. So many experiences, so many times, so many different ways! There are his mother’s funny faces—a spark in his chest. There is the sting of a needle—a ripple through his arm. There is the scratch hurting his throat—every swallow teary-eyed. He learns quickly how to become angry. When his dad never comes home, he thinks he figures out sadness.
He sees color. Color is fascinating. How many ways there are to see the world! The sky is blue, and so is the thin cloth he wears. The grass is green, and that means it is growing. The sun must have a color, but when he looks at it, it blinds him, so how can he tell? Colors everywhere, glittering, sparkling, dazzling! He likes blue, and how during a cloudy day, the sky finds holes to wink at him through. He dislikes purple. That’s the color of his room.
It is amazing how much there is in the world. Every day, he experiences something new. Clothing that hides pockets of flesh, ripe apples he picks in the garden, the way a ladybug feels on his forearm. It’s exciting, on the sunny days; it’s frightening, on the rainy ones. The more he experiences, the shyer he grows. The madder he gets when things don’t go his way. But still… life! Full and fresh and ready for him.
He accepts it with open arms.
LEMON
He finds out how to feel alive.
He jumps across flowing streams, scratching his knees as he rolls on the other side. He plays games with friends who no one else can see. He paints, colors swirling across page to table, often to the annoyance of his mother. He reads, imagining himself in his favorite characters’ places, defeating villains and saving the world. He reenacts scenes, sticks swishing and rocks tumbling. He climbs trees, reaching higher points each time.
He writes, thin and scribbly words against crinkled paper. Whatever comes to his mind, he engraves on white, on bark, in muddy puddles—anything he can find. He’s always engaging with the stimulating world around him. He writes about lime-colored bees who talk with thick accents and fearsome tree monsters come to life. His heroes he always imagines in his own figure, though he denies it to anyone who points it out. He writes stories till his hand cramps, till his eyes droop, till he has absolutely nothing left to say.
He loves his mother. Sometimes, he thinks he doesn’t. Then it swells again, blooming with even more branches to secure his heart to his body. She ruffles his hair and kisses him goodnight. His smile widens when he is around her. When she pulls him against her warm body, he uses her light to combat the roaring storms within himself. She is the rope he scales any cliff with. She has him understand his worth.
He dislikes his education. He’s already intelligent, enough to surpass those many levels ahead of him. To him, education is dull—mindless, even—and it has no right snatching away his time from traipsing in forests and swimming in lakes. It feels like a grand waste to spend so much time doing something he doesn’t enjoy.
There is one aspect of these loathsome times that he does find entertaining: he is with his friend.
She’s everything he wants to be: fun, cheerful, easygoing. She leaps over logs higher than even he; she pencils figures with so much detail he thinks they must be real. Sometimes she draws characters, and he’ll write them into stories, and she’ll laugh as he reads them to her. She lives only a minute or two from him—at a sprint, that is—giving them ample opportunity to work through homework together, or to simply rest next to one another and view the twinkling stars above.
He likes her so much that he takes her to his secret place. It is a distance from where they live, involving exuberant amounts of hiking, stumbling, and the occasional spiderweb to the face. The tree line breaks, and the field is revealed. Open and free, stretching on in quiet eternity. Flowers blooming, birds harmonizing, and the radiant sun grinning.
He takes her speechless self to the centerpiece. A tree, taller than any he found before. He shows her around, where he’s placed logs and rocks for sitting, and where he finds footholds on the tree to climb. He even reveals the place where he scratched his name against its smooth bark. He wants her to do the same. She does.
They meet here often. He still comes alone too. It is an escape from any worries he has. It is where he peeks into heaven. It is where he breathes in life.
He smiles.
RUBY
At some point, he starts noticing things about his friend. How golden her hair gleams when the sun strikes it at a certain angle. How she sneezes three times instead of two. The way she laughs. The way she’ll give him a side-eye when he makes a terrible joke. She twirls her hair around her right pointer finger when she’s stressed. Her tongue parts her lips when she intently focuses. Her eyes are a striking blue, like the rhythm of waves in the sea.
He treasures his time with her. He counts the moments he is away from her. He finds every excuse not to leave, even when the clock strikes midnight and wolves howl at the moon. He’s interested in what she wears. He counts the number of her freckles. When she brushes his hand, his heart leaps.
Sometimes he is nervous. He likes her, but how is he to tell how much she likes him? He talks to himself, alone in his room, cursing the words he used earlier, or reminiscing about the way she walks with such a flowing, free gait. He finally asks her to a dance.
She says yes. It is the greatest night of his life.
Their relationship deepens. They talk every day about anything, everything. How obnoxious their mothers are, how tedious the latest assignment is, or how beautiful the trees look when painted in fall. They have each other. When drowning, they pull each other to the surface. When fading, they pencil each other in. When crying, they write a better world.
They are married beneath the tree. The meadow makes the perfect backdrop. It is just them and one other, and the extra only to make it official. They want the moment to be theirs. They want the gorgeous scenery to remain theirs. The wind caresses the branches as their lips meet. A leaf catches in her hair. He brushes it aside while they both laugh.
It is a beautiful day. It is a perfect day. It is everything to him.
He loves her, and she loves him.
SCARlET
He never thought life could be so utterly voracious.
It takes without giving back. It strips away the skin. It peels back layers hidden deeper than knowledge’s will. The more the rain pours, the more mud it forms.
He doesn’t have free time. He has a job that demands he work away the best hours of each day. He has payments that have him gnawing at his fingernails. He finds he has taken an innumerable number of things for granted. He has to pay for every meal he eats. He struggles to get enough sleep at night. He’s suddenly anxious all the time. There’re pills on his bathroom counter. Green, red, blue. How did they get there? Which one is today’s? Are they even his?
Simplicity is dead. Innocence is slaughtered. He does not write; he hasn’t the time. He feels he is becoming a shell of himself. He fears speaking his mind for its consequences. He’s gaining weight, yet he’s eating less. Where has the time gone? His birthday feels more like a moment than an event. They need more money. His mother is sick. He provides the necessary funds, but she still wilts like the flowers he lies next to her bedrest.
He grows distant. His wife has trouble reaching him. She is not as fun as he remembers. They argue about the smallest of things. She should’ve covered her arm when coughing. It should’ve been his turn to take out the garbage. They find themselves eating dinner separately, for what they call the “sake of ease.” Their days sound drearier every time. They are running out of topics to talk about. It’s a relief when they turn off the light every night.
He cries. He nicks himself while shaving. He burns himself on a pan. He hits a dog crossing the road. He tires of taking care of the lawn. He hates choosing dinner—why must he do it each and every day? He falls into a waking coma. Wake, work, sleep. He can hardly remember what he did the day before, but then he recalls he already knows, because it’s always the same.
Years are passing him by. He tries to think of happy times, but they are desperately overshadowed. He finds a better job. It does not help. He loathes responsibility. He feels guilty because he loathes responsibility. Why should he be allowed everything he wants without experiencing agony? Life services ill to make room for good. Why is nothing he does changing how he feels?
The world is falling apart. At every turn, he finds that much is abundantly clear. He confronts racism, drugs, politics, sexism—he can hardly keep track of his own problems, much less everyone else’s. If he carries so much weight already, how he can afford to bear more? She tells him ignorance is not bliss. He must be a force of change. He says if he skips recycling this one time, it won’t make a difference. She says that if everyone thought that way, everyone would be dead. He’s always butchering the world.
He locks himself in the bathroom and sobs, but it isn’t the same as when he was a boy. He reads fantastical books, but he is no longer transported to their worlds. He writes a word on paper, and it’s always the same: fuck. He never curses. He now curses. And for the life of him, he can’t see her golden hair flickering in the sunlight, it’s just blonde, and the weeds in his garden are multiplying, and the sky is a backdrop, and the trees simply trees, and every moment of joy in his life is fleeting, and he has no children, and he’s breaking apart, and
His mother is dead.
GRAY
Stars die all the time. They use up their hydrogen, bloating themselves to impossibly large sizes. Elements fuse together in hydrogen’s place. The core becomes iron; with it, its ability to burn is stripped away. The star’s outer layers stumble inward. Eventually, the core becomes so hot it implodes. The result is a supernova.
He stumbles upon her desolate body. Bottles of pills on the floor. He picks them up, one by one, as if to make sure they are empty. He remembers letting it slip how much it was costing him to sustain her. He remembers how the very sun will die like the rest of the stars.
Soon he is burying her, surrounded by people he doesn’t know. His wife is at his side. She holds him as silent tears billow down his cheeks. Soon his mother is a part of the ground. He wants to dig her up, to kiss her on the forehead one last time. He wants to say all the things he never did, to thank her for taking care of him, to just say… to just… say…
The funeral is the last he and his wife touch with affection. They divorce soon after. He is alone. It is all he desires. He is glad to be rid of her, the annoying bitch she is. He is free again.
A month later, and he misses her.
His heart aches. He wakes to the empty side of his bed. His arms embrace a cold pillow. Each night, the cover soaks in salty tears. He misses the way she dances, left foot always the first forward. He would give anything to hear her laugh. He would slice his wrists, if only to see her lips curve again.
He wants her to draw him a character. He wants to ask what she wants for dinner. He wants to know what happened at work that day. He wonders if her ingrown toenail is feeling better. He wants her voice to bid him goodnight. He wants to stress over choosing the perfect present for her birthday. He wants to celebrate her every success with a spectacular party. He wants to buy her five hundred more of the stuffed bears she loves. He wants to send her a prismatic assortment of flowers, leave them on the table so that every day when she comes home, she finds a new one.
He longs for company. He finds a dog. He has hardly any time to love it before it dies. Like his mother.
It’s the way she rolls her eyes at all his exuberant impersonations. How she comforts him with a mere hand on his shoulder. It’s the way she listens. She makes him feel as if she cares. As if every meaningless conversation matters. It’s the way she writes poetry, and how he praises every intricate piece, telling her repeatedly how she has no right to be embarrassed. Wherever there’s a squirrel, she’s quick to point it out. Where there’s a storm, she follows, dancing in the rain. Her smile… It’s her smile.
It was her smile.
UMBER
He is old. He is lathered in wrinkles. His hair is as white as the dribbling snow. He no longer rearranges his furniture every week; he has hardly any strength left. He bruises easily. He finds himself staring at the grays and purples on his melting skin. He sleeps more than he is awake. It is an effort to make it to the restroom. He eats earlier each day, because he doesn’t know what else to do. He consumes little. His vision blurs. His hearing worsens.
He thinks constantly. Sometimes his thoughts impose snapshots of random moments. The time in class when he was called upon but didn’t have an answer. The terrible thing he said that one time, or the time when he wanted to say thank you but never did. Sometimes the things he envisions he swears aren’t real. The events are so arbitrary, so numerous, that he cannot recall the reality behind them. They haunt him all the same.
He feels the end approaching. It is taking its sweet time. In the meantime, he thinks about all he should’ve done. He wanted to travel east. He remembers putting it off, promising himself he would have time later. Now he doesn’t have the money or energy. He remembers his mother. He weeps that he didn’t spend more time with her. He refuses to acknowledge he isn’t responsible for her death. He remembers being worried over every little thing. He remembers how life always gnawed at him—no, how it still is, swallowing crumb after crumb until all that’s left is an ambivalent husk. He curses himself for not doing more. He doesn’t know what he actually did.
Most of all, he thinks of her. He finds other loves. They are fleeting. His desire is forever sustained through her. If he could change anything—anything—it would be about him and her. He wishes he knew where she was. If she was even still alive. Does she miss him ? Does she ever think of him? If he had not said that, if he had not done that, if he had just been that—would they be together now? How he longs for company. He desperately wants to recapture himself, but it is far too late.
He finds every waking moment agonizing.
BLACK
He decides to go to the tree.
It takes him days to reach it. He spends every bit of money he has left to get there. On that, and an axe.
He remembers the path to it. It is one of two images in his head he can still see clearly. He finds his old neighborhood. Veers off into the woods. Stumbles through brush and logs and bushes. He stops often to catch his breath. He bleeds from vines that cut him. He holds his cane in one hand, the axe all too heavy across his back. He slips, and it takes him ten minutes to rise again. He muddies his clothing. He scrapes his hands and knees. His breath grows ragged. The sun beats down on his sweat-ridden forehead.
He makes it to the meadow.
He expects it to be gone. He expects to find boiling factories in its place. He expects to see houses and sidewalks planted in every area. He does not expect to find it the same. He does not expect to see the flowers, and the grass, and the colors, and more than anything, the tree.
He sees the flowers, the grass, the colors, and the tree.
He feels as if he is in a dream. He makes his way forward, no longer feeling his exhaustion. He has no weight. He reaches the tree.
It has lost many of its leaves, and some of the bark has been scratched away, but it is the same tree. The sun is setting, casting colors dipped in delicacy across the painting. It is as he remembers it.
Yet it does not make him feel the same.
He thought he might discover something coming back here. He hoped that the meadow would be gone. Replaced. Because then, he would know it is life that changed, and not him. He needs to justify that life is the problem. That he isn’t at fault for drying out like a shriveled grape.
But it all is the same. And he feels…
Everything.
He is a child, running circles around the base of the tree. Laughing and climbing and yelling. He is shoulder-to-shoulder with a girl whose hair rivaled the sun in its hue. He is writing, language crashing like the gales of a hurricane. He is staring at the sky, wondering at its awe-striking elegance.
The axe is trembling in his grip. He remembers he is tired. His legs are quaking. It was a far trek to get there. He is an old man.
He decides to take a break before he cuts down the wooden monstrosity. Shrugging off his backpack, he carefully sits back against the tree. His eyes go to the sunset.
He’ll just rest for a moment. He feels tired, is all. He’ll be fine in a second. He’ll bring the tree down.
He looks at the bark. He blinks. There is his name. Next to it, her name.
He traces his finger around her carved letters. He smiles at its familiarity.
He closes his eyes, his finger falls, and
He rests.
Rylan Jackson is an avid lover of all things fiction. His favorite genre to write is fantasy, where he has created his own world that almost all his fiction is set in. Rylan also has an interest in filmmaking, and he has created multiple feature-length movies on his YouTube channel, Jackelus Moonfang. He is currently working toward a BA in Creative Writing at Kansas State University.
@jackelusmoonfang on Instagram (mainly I use YouTube, though)