Accounting

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Nobody was there to see it – the forest had long been deserted, too. Even the wind left. The only sign of movement is that timid candle flame.

It’s noon and the day is bright, but the scene is indistinguishable from dusk. The woods are charcoal black shadows. Only the front wall of the cabin and part of the left remain, both burnt inside and out. It’s winter-cold. It’s always winter now.

The path that leaves the cabin weaves through skeleton trees down a gentle slope. It would have been picturesque, before. Today the rocks are bare or covered in ash.

Bubbly laughter echoes among the trees. A memory, but is it yours? You press ahead, determined to find the source. There might have been a life worth living here, filled with dreams waiting to be chased. If so, they were fools. Hope is a curse that gives you wings to discover you cannot fly.

The candle and the flame are far behind. You used to know these parts so well. There was a small lake full of ducks and kids who’d chase them. You’d pass them on your way from work, phone on hand, nose buried. Too many things on your mind.

The forest had burned before but it bounced back. It would always bounce back. People complained about the change, and the heat, and made a huge deal about fossils and some such, but you had more urgent things to worry about. Reports to file. Targets to meet.

It takes effort to push those thoughts aside. If you don’t focus they will trap you again, and who wants to spend forever and a half wringing hands over things that we can’t take back?

You listen out for the laughter. Perhaps it will return and this time you’ll find a seam in the veil of fog to peer behind. There’s got to be someone, somewhere!

There they are again, those stupid wings, ready to flap, never to lift. Of course there is no one. It is just like your luck to be left behind.

Around you the black trees stab at the sky, accusatory like raised fingers: we clamoured for help, and none came. The forest always bounces back, but not from this.

At the base of the hill, between two posts that once framed a gate lies a charred hunk of metal and beside it a calcined body.

You’ve all but forgotten the laughter following the road. The day grows late and soon shadows will blend into each other; it will bring much-needed respite. Darkness is comforting. It’s easier to see with a memory’s eye in the dark.

Maybe tomorrow will be the day you find peace. In the meantime you carry on forward, searching. The wings of hope propel you to the edge of town.

Houses appear after a while and they too are black. All their mortgages have defaulted. There is no paying any of this back.

There is no point in going further, you know everywhere else the story is the same. There are no cliche newspapers with hysterical headlines, and you don’t need them. You know what happened.

For the longest time you saw what was coming and did nothing; just let it happen. Everyone did.

There’s a soft crackling in the air as though the world has been filled with static. Far away, the candle flickers.

You. You let this happen.

The candle goes out.

Eventually, you will flicker, too.

Nothing will ever shine here again.