The Grassy Knoll

‘Never did I see a person with such a looketh on her face, she hid and cried, oh how I lied to keep her where she lay.’

God, I must have read that line at least fifteen times. Over and over and over again. I just couldn’t concentrate. She was supposed to be here.

She was always here.

12 o’clock on the dot. Not a second past; not a second sooner.

Every single day I sat on this hill watching the sunrise. It was peaceful. Blissful, even. My grassy knoll, I called it. The place I went to read every day. Sometimes I delved into a novel. Other days just a picture book. It wasn’t about what I read. It was about the place.

Here I was alone, at one with myself. I felt as though I could just be me, without having to talk to anyone. Because let’s face it, people are annoying; they’re difficult. They want to talk and tell you things. While I just prefer to sit by myself, alone with my thoughts and away from everyone.

‘Oh, it’s just part of my daily schedule’ I say when my parents would ass. And fine, to others it might seem odd. A 17-year-old girl sitting alone against a tree, reading books.

Every single day.

Sure, I should probably be playing with the other kids doing whatever other kids do.

But like I said: I hated people.

That’s why I liked her.

The girl that replaced me on my hill every day.

I didn’t know her name, or where she was from. But at 12 o’clock in the afternoon, every day, a bright green light would light up the horizon, and she would stroll towards me, and I’d stand up and smile.

I didn’t ask questions or investigate the light and its origins.

I just knew that meant an hour had passed. Even though I could just use my watch. I knew that when she appeared that it must be 12 o’clock. And so, I’d do what I did every day. Smile politely. She would always smile back and then we’d walk past each other; she would sit down against the tree, and I’d head home.

That’s why I liked her, I think. The girl, I mean. Because she was like me. We never talked or exchanged pleasantries. We just smiled and parted ways.

And thank God. I really didn’t want to have to find another place to read. Because that’s exactly what I would have done if she decided we needed to start talking.

But nope.

She seemed quite content with seeing each other every day in complete silence. She was about my height with auburn hair that she always wore in a neat braid wound into a tight bun. She had a kind face; the type that could calm you instantly. But it was her eyes that had always struck me.

Her face, her hair, all seemed so stereotypical of every beautiful person I’d ever read about. But her eyes. They weren’t right.

Icy blue is the best way to describe them.

Almost as if there was something else behind them; something concealed behind all that beauty.

She was (at a guess) 2 years older than me, and her age showed. She always held herself with such menacing poise; almost as if she was a villain. But one of the elegant villains.

So here I was. 12:05 by the watches call; waiting.

Unsure whether to keep reading in the hope she would show, or head home and hope she would appear tomorrow.

‘Never did I see a person with such a looketh on her face, she hid and cried, oh how I lied to keep her where she lay.’

I tried to read the line again. But I just could not focus.

12:06. She still hadn’t shown.

I don’t even know why I was getting so nervous; it’s not like I knew her well. She was just a random girl that I’d seen every day over the last few years.

‘Years,’ I said aloud to myself.

I’d seen her every day for easily two or three years. 12 o’clock. Always without absence. Sure, there’d been days when she was sick. But she showed anyway. Looking a little pale and snotty. But she arrived, nonetheless.

I discovered the knoll and its beautiful oak tree when I was 14. Mum and Dad had a horrible fight at home that day and he struck her. She fell down and hit her head on the side of the table. I remember it so vividly. She got up and snatched a vase, cracking against his chest it detonated into hundreds of tiny shards.

And I ran.

I took my book and ran.

Ran as far as I could, until I found myself in a vast meadow. Leagues from home. Surrounded by tall golden flowers as far as the eye could see. In the centre of this ocean of gold, was a beautiful green hill shaded by a terrific oak tree.

So grand and powerful was this oak that I remember sitting under its branches for hours that day, comforted by it and the beauty of the land around me. And so, from that moment on I went there every day. Not only to read but to escape. It was only days after that she first appeared.

Sometimes I’d look up from reading a little before twelve and spot her in the distance. Strolling casually towards my grassy knoll.

I knew she would be there because of the light. The green light that always shone so bright. It would flash, like an emerald that had caught the sun.

And gradually, starting out as a speck on the horizon, she would work her way towards me.

Yet today the light had not flashed.

I checked my watch for what seemed like the thousandth time. 12:10. Oh god. Where the frick was she!

‘God,’ I thought to myself, ‘life must be really dull if this is fuelling your anxiety; just get up and leave!’

And I wanted to. By the angels, I can’t explain how much I wanted to leave. It just seemed odd waiting here for her. What if she showed up and realised I’d been waiting?

Maybe she was planning on arriving late today so we wouldn’t see each other. Sounds like something I’d do. But then I was probably just overthinking the entire thing. She was probably just late.

12:15.

This battle in my mind continued for quite some time.

12:20.

Well. 20 minutes late was just ridiculous.

I decided it was time for me to head home. To put this behind me and accept whatever fate had befallen my ‘friend’.

I grasped my bookmark from beside me and slid it neatly in between the pages of my book. Rising to my feet, I took a long-drawn breath surveying once more the beauty of my surroundings.

I always felt like a King or Queen when I stood here, looking over my realm. The flowers, my subjects, bowing in fealty to me as I addressed them from my palace.

I started down the knoll and soon found myself amongst the crowd. Stretching out my right hand I brushed my fingers lightly atop the flowers, each so tall they stood almost at hip height. The soft velvety petals bowing under the weight of my hand. It was here I felt so alive. The fresh air surrounding me. The freedom to do what I want.

I would be home soon.

Behind me, my grassy knoll, its perfect green surrounded by the picturesque landscape. The flowers would soon turn to a vast green country where the grass was almost plastic in its perfection, and just beyond that: home.

Suddenly the horizon flashed green.

The light.

My friend.

She was here.

I stood still. And faced the path before me. Where the light touched the earth.

Where she would come from.

Just ahead of me, a few paces ahead were a row of flowers that appeared damaged. The stems snapped just inches below each blossom. Their innards glistening clearly in the light.

‘How odd.’ I thought to myself.

As I continued along my trail, I noticed there were others. Some more damaged, but all leading in the same direction. A path of destruction. A stream of imperfection. And although subtle, it concerned me.

Reaching down, I picked off the blossoms that hung by each stem and began to bury them in the soil. Recalling how I used to do this all the time as a kid whenever I saw a flower blossom clinging for life. It was something I learnt from the first book I ever read by myself. ‘Gardening Tips for the Elderly.’

I soon got into a bit of a pattern. Hurrying forward to the next patch of damaged flora and burying the littered dead. I continued to glance up at the path, hoping to catch sight of my friend, walking towards me.

I rose from my kneeling position and rubbed my hands together, brushing off the soil that clung to my skin. I looked out once again, taking in the beauty of the golden field once more. Still no sign of her. Then I noticed a coloured flower a few paces ahead.

Red. Like a poppy.

So clear.

So vibrant.

So imperfect.

Like a drop of oil on a freshly painted canvas.

I waded through the field; grasping it in my hand, I plucked the flower from its stem. The petals were crimson. Coated in a liquid that, although dark in colour, shone in the light of the afternoon sun. As I picked it, the blossom shot up towards me, splashing the substance across my face. It was warm and tasted metallic. Almost bloodlike.

It was blood.

I broke out into an instantaneous sweat. My body was unsure of how to comprehend what was before me.

Blood.

I could still taste it.

I could feel its splatter on my face. I was tarnished.

Panic overcame me, my heart pounding like a wild animal trying to escape my chest.

I dropped it. Blood staining my hands.

I looked around for someone to help me, someone to comfort me. What was happening?

Then I spotted it.

Ahead of me, another red flower. And around it several more. All covered in blood.

I staggered forward like I’d been shot. My ears ignoring all sounds. My mouth dry. My eyes fixed between the bloody flower and my bloody hands.

Impure.

Tarnished.

Stumbling forward I found myself surrounded by them. All covered. Covered in someone or something’s blood.

All around me snapped and blood-soaked flowers smiled at me.

In the centre a vast empty patch, within my perfect sea of gold.

A mass of flowers had been completely crushed; crumpled under the weight of a body.

There, sprawled on the ground amidst a pool of blood.

Was her.

My friend. My only friend.

She looked utterly drained of life. So sad and defeated. Lying still amongst the fallen flora. The pool of blood glistening in the light and trickling ever so slowly into the surrounding bushes.

My body fell into shock. The world around me went still.

I was numb.

Her arms had been torn from their sockets and arranged in place of her legs. Her legs were missing. Two roughly hewn stumps proof her legs had been removed gruesomely.

The sight itself was enough to make me violently retch what little I had in my stomach, painting the flowers.

Throat slit and face mangled. Yet still, her eyes watched me.

Piercing blue. Ever watching.

Almost as if on cue the bright emerald light lit the horizon once more. I turned to look at the path, pulling my eyes from the horrific scene.

Strolling past me, ignoring me completely, was a girl.

She had auburn hair that was neatly tied into a bun.

In her hand, she held a book.

And her eyes were icy blue.

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