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The woman, the rock and the tree

Is love enough to overcome fear?

By Victor ChavarriaPublished 4 months ago 5 min read

A dirty face, pale skin darkened by grime, the marks of dried tears decorating her cheeks as echoes of lost feelings. A shadow haunted her eyes, all light was gone from them, maybe hidden, maybe lost forever. A steady pace in rhythm but quivering under her own weight. Every step taking her closer to somewhere; that she hoped. Being somewhere is all you can do if you’re nowhere.

She was nowhere.

There was nothing else in the world, the barren desert was empty of everything but the sound of her naked feet slapping the ground. Bleeding and tired they kept hitting the ground time after time, more out of spite than purpose.

The numbness has taken completely as a disease that spread through her veins, reaching every corner of her body, shielding her from pain.

Like that she walked, day after day, month after month, year after year.

One of the days she walked was not as the ones before, or the ones after. There was something there. She could see a big rock on the road, a strong rock, it looked smooth and round so she walked to it and sat next to it. Resting her back against it.

The feeling was like nothing she could imagine. Resting.

For hours she talked to the rock, complained about the world, described her numbness, her tears and her scars. The rock listened but never answered back.

It offered a momentary rest but she knew she had to keep walking, this was not her place.

She stood up and looked to the horizon, she never seemed to get any closer to it, yet, she had to keep going. Looked back at the rock one more time and decided to take it with her, that way, she’ll be able to rest along the way. She bent her knees and hugged the rock, realizing then it wasn’t as smooth as it seemed to be.

She picked it up and held it close to her chest, close to her heart. The edges of the rock cut her skin and made her bleed, it was painful, but she was numb. Maybe not being alone was worth the pain. Maybe not being alone was worth the spilled blood, the new scars, the wounds that may never heal.

Like that, she started her way again. She was not alone anymore, but now, every step came slower and heavier. She could rest, place the rock against the ground and lay against it, the rest was great but, every time she picked it up a brand new set of wounds would open all through her arms. It didn’t matter, she was not alone.

Like that she walked, day after day, month after month, year after year.

Then, there was another day that was different to the ones before, and would be different from the ones after.

On the horizon she could see something. A tree, a lonely tree with yellowish leaves and a sad song on its branches. She placed the rock on the ground and walked to it, she felt comfort as she walked into the shadow. She was shielded from the ever burning sun. She laid on the ground and talked to the tree, complained about the world, described her numbness, her tears and her scars. The tree listened and there was a gust of wind, the wind danced through the leaves, creating complex melodies. It was just music for everyone that would’ve heard but, not for her. She understood the words hidden in the melody. She knew the tree, saw her heart, saw her soul and tried to show its own. She smiled and realized the leaves were green now.

Happily she fell asleep and time passed while she dreamed of a better world, a world where she didn’t walk, but danced under the tree’s shadow, a happy world.

She woke up and felt hungry, her stomach roared and her lips imitated the dry desert soil. She stood up and looked around and suddenly among the green leaves, she saw a fruit. Just at arm’s reach she grabbed it and it easily came to her hand. The taste was sweet and sour. It had love and pain. There was an echo of sorrow and a promise of hope on it.

She loved the taste.

She ate and then laid again against the tree, rested again, smiled again. A piece of bark slowly started to peel itself, slim rivers of sap started flowing from the wound as blood that came out of a deep cut. The piece of bark fell next to her. It was a gift for her, a part of the tree she could hold. Even though it looked rugged it was gentle to her touch. She picked it and gave it a kiss, the wind sang new melodies of love once again.

She took a last rest.

Because, she looked back at the rock and to the scars of her arms. She had to keep walking and couldn’t take the tree with her. She didn’t feel the horizon calling her as much as it did before but she stood up, looked back at the tree one last time, its leaves falling all around her on an orange choreography as it gave her a last embrace. She took the piece of bark and promised to always carry it next to her heart.

With that she walked away again.

As she stepped out of the shadow he realized she had forgotten how strong the sun’s judgment was, it felt stronger than ever. She used the piece of the tree to cover herself a little bit from it, but it wasn’t enough.

She reached the rock and realized she would’ve had to leave the bark behind. She didn’t hesitate, in action she didn’t, but there was a shadow on her heart.

Was love enough to overcome fear?

She got new wounds as she picked the rock, these ones were deeper and hurt more. The numbness was gone, she could feel the pain.

And like that, she walked and walked, not looking back at the tree, carrying the rock, knowing in her heart she had made the…

She didn’t know what was right, she only knew, it was her choice to make and right now, she chose pain.

Like that she walked, day after day, month after month, year after year.

New tears and new scars and every step taking her farther away from the tree. Soon so far away, she would never find the way back.

The wind sang a last song, the little leaves that still danced with it, created a melody about loss and sorrow, with every moment, hope was less and less present as the tree waited for her to come back and dance under its shadow.

Short StoryLove

About the Creator

Victor Chavarria

I'm a writer not cause I write. I'm a writer cause I'm truly myself when I do.

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    Victor ChavarriaWritten by Victor Chavarria

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