Who's Killed the Leaves?
Who's killed the leaves?
Me, says the apple, I've killed them all.
Fat as a bomb or a cannonball
I've killed the leaves.
The darkness begins to clear. Not an ordinary darkness. More like an infinite blackness engulfing me into a mysterious world. It frightened me; I thought it was Death. Strangely enough, I am not afraid of dying. Dying is something that just happens, and we all must face it one day, one way or the other. No, it is the unknown which scares me. Who knows what will happen in the next chapter in this book of life? The darkness is clearing back into my usual frame of mind. This tells me one thing: I am alive. At least, I think I am. I flinch as a pain rushes through me like an electric shock; that wasn't expected. I try to open my eyes, but they are too heavy. I attempt to push myself into a safer position. The pain rushes through again, but at least I'm comfortable. As I come back to my senses I try to figure where I am. I can smell cooking meat; a breakfast material like bacon or sausages. The smell causes more pain as I feel the hunger. I couldn't even bear to imagine the last time I had eaten something. Then something else hits my nose; it's a rancid, almost dangerous smell. It warns me and tells me I shouldn't be here. It was the smell of the rotting blood and flesh of a human. Where the hell was I? Not a hospital, it wasn't clean enough, definitely not Heaven. Did I really deserve to suffer the realms of Hell? There is a slight fresh breeze in the room which makes me shudder. There must be a window or door somewhere. A window meant a chance to escape. A window meant a chance to survive, even.
Who sees them drop? Me, says the pear, they will leave me all bare, So all the people can point and stare…
I tried to open my eyes again and slowly they began to open. At first, I can't see a thing. Everything is a misty blur in the distance. It's like waking up in a box filled with fog. As my eyes adjusted, I could see I was in a wooden room. Directly opposite me is a small window, where a small robin rests on its windowsill. To my right, an open door where the smell of the food came from. I turn my head to the right with a groan; I'd never noticed how heavy my head was until now. I stare at the right side of the room in shock and horror. There, in a pile, were easily 30 to 35 bodies rotting away in a mass of browning blood. Some looked like they had been there for months; others seemed fairly fresh. The body closest to me looked like a depiction of the famous painting of "The Scream". His eyes were wide and a light blue colour, his mouth was gawping, and his blood painted a spider's web across his face. I nearly jumped out of my skin when he blinked and started to moan. He was trying to communicate with me but his body was so badly mutilated, I couldn't make head or tail about what he was saying to me. Or what he was possibly warning me.
Who'll catch their blood? Me, me, me, says the marrow, the marrow, I'll get so rotund they'll need a wheelbarrow…
I turn my head back to face the ceiling. This was too much to take in at one time. As I tilt my head up, I can feel my blood trickle against my skin. Contrary to my original thoughts, it was not cold, but warm as it began to form patterns across my skin. I had no idea where it was coming from, and this frightened me more. Was I as damaged as the boy I'd just seen? He looked no younger than 24. I hope he made use of his small life, for even if he regains it, there won't be much for him to do. I run my fingers across the wooden floor and feel the small nicks in the wood splinter my large, tough hands. Giant's hands, my father would call them. It was a genetic trait of ours to have large hands, but with the benefit of them being almost indestructible. That's also why my family has a reputation of having jobs such as carpentry and wood carving. My father made all of my toys for me. He said he helped Santa make the toys when the elves had their summer holidays. I tried to convince my son with the same story, but he's not quite as gullible as me. My daydreams were abruptly interrupted when the window flung open. The robin, which too appeared to be startled, flew into the room, did a few laps of honour, and then regained his seat on his throne of a windowsill. I wish I could fly away. The robin has a choice too fly through the window to freedom, yet he decided to stay here. I have no choice, I am a prisoner. A prisoner on Death Row with limited days left.
Me, says the swallow, there's just time enough, before I must pack my spools and be off…
I feel angry and full of rage. I have an adrenaline rush. I want to jump up and run out of this place. But I have no choice, I am far too weak. I start to pant. In my head I begin to pace the room. I hear a loud, drunken voice from through the door. I ignore and try to remember the last night before I was captured to this strange place. I was…in a park, taking the long route back home from work. It was a beautiful October evening; a traditional autumn look had taken over the place. On the floor, crisp orange leaves created a thin layer of carpet for children to step on in their brand new shining wellington boots and giggle as the leaves made that satisfying crunching noise, which could only amuse the very young, and those trying to relive their memories. The once grand trees now stood looking rather awkward in their naked state. The park was empty, except from me, a few teenagers slouching on the benches and smoking some unknown substance and an old man in a grey duffle coat, absent-mindedly watching the day go past. As I was walking home, I was thinking of the past week. I had got given a raise from my boss, my son had started his first full week at primary school and my wonderful wife had once again succeeded in burning the unburnable and destroying our 37th microwave, meaning we had ended up with a takeaway dinner for the 4th night in a row. I could almost hear her carefree "here we go again" laugh, echoing from her haven of a kitchen. She loved to cook; it just always ended up with producing a lot of carbon. She has straight, long flowing blonde hair, which touches her waist, which is complimented with her magical deep blue eyes. Then there is my five year old son. He has the same colour hair as his mother, but has my messy bird nest hairstyle, his mother's eyes, my charm and a contagious smile, which I'm convinced is a recessive gene. As I was walking along, drowning myself in the optimistic views of my family, I fell. I thought I'd tripped, but as I made feeble attempts to get up, the darkness took over me and fought me down, only to bring me back here. Where am I to go now?
Who'll dig their grave? Me, says the river, with the power of the clouds, a brown deep grave I'll dig under my floods…
That park is in Manchester. I don't live in the main city, but in the outskirts. I can't say it's any quieter, or has less crime. That would be lying. But it creates the illusion of feeling safer. If I was richer I would buy a house in the countryside for my family, in a friendly village where everybody knows each other and the women meet up daily to chat and drink tea and the men all go to their manly jobs such as farming and carpentry and all the little boys and girls go off to play football or hopscotch and learn their two times table at school. Well, maybe that's a little fairytale like, but that's what I want; a place where it's safer and easier to grow up in and you don't have to breathe in contents of a traffic jam everyday. I've lived in Manchester all my life, so has my wife. The sad truth is my son is most likely doomed to the same fate. I love my son so much; I'd do anything for him. I love watching TV with him. I love throwing him up in the air and watching him laugh. I love playing sports with my son. Actually, I love playing sports with anyone. I play football, rugby (although I don't quite have the correct frame), tennis, basketball, you name it, I play it. My other hobbies are watching sports, not through the metal box thing lazy men with beer scream at every time a football hits the back of a net, but properly at the stadium, where all of the action is, and I don't just watch football. Any sport played by professionals' fascinates me. I would never be able to get to that kind of level, but it makes me so curious to wonder they could achieve such a feat. They're young, is my excuse. Then the voice in my head argues, 33 years is young, and then I argue back, but 26 is younger! This argument carries on until the voices force me to commit myself to exercise, which I then completely ignore and get frustrated with myself when I notice one morning that I've gained half a pound in a period of three weeks. I have a small frame on which every item of clothing looks like a handy down from someone double my height, messy brown hair, brown-blue eyes, a crooked, yet apparently handsome nose, with the addition of giant's hands and clown's feet. Everybody always goes on about how small I am, but actually I'm 6'4'', I just never gain a lot of weight. I grumble when I do, but I seem to have a naturally fast metabolism, and a natural phobia to fat. Or possibly fat has a natural phobia to me, I'll never be too sure.
Who'll be the parson? Me, says the crow, for it is well-known, I study the bible right down to the bone…
I know I mention a lot of my son, but he is so perfect. I hope he is not crying because I am missing. I hope he and my wife are staying strong. Even if I die, I promise myself to watch over them. Just last week, it was my son's fifth birthday. He was so excited, but we weren't sure what to do. He hates parties. He doesn't like loud noises or the competition of party games. He doesn't really make friends very well, either. So my wife and I decided we would have a quiet pub lunch together at the sea followed by large doses of triple chocolate ice cream with sauce, wafers and a flake. I remember when the ice cream arrived at the table; my son nearly fainted.
"Here you are," the kind young waitress said, "One triple chocolate ice cream with as much toppings as possible for 3."
"Bu-b-b-b-b-but…" stammered my son, "That ice cream is just far too giganormous*! Not even Batman could eat all of that!"
After that performance of adorability the waitress had to hide in the kitchen for the next half hour to stifle her high pitched chuckles. The waitress finally appeared re-appeared grinning with a bright red face. I'm sure that afterwards they'd had to submit her to hospital for immediate treatment. God knows what's going to happen when he brings his first girlfriend home. He won't miss me as much as I'll miss him.
Who'll be chief mourner? Me, says the wind, I will cry through the grass, the people will pale and go cold as I pass…
I can hear soft footsteps echo towards me. Each one seems to scream "Death!" and "Fate!" He doesn't know me, but I know of him. He is the killer, the one, who on that autumn evening chose me as his victim. At first, I feel fear, but now I am content. I am invincible. He can cause pain and laugh. He can torture me. He can kill me. But I'm not even afraid of the unknown anymore. Because this is the unknown, and what could be worse? He is now in front of me, laughing a drunken laugh. He is wearing a hoodie, so I cannot see his face. He draws a very small but sharp knife from a pocket in the back of his trousers. He stabs it in my leg, and I make no sound. He pulls off his hoodie, and stares at me, disappointedly. His face is psychotic. He is sweating and shaking violently with his mouldy teeth bared. He stabs me in the chest and I feel my heart leap into a rapid movement, my breathing is almost as psychotic as the killer and I begin to sputter and cough blood.
"That's better", laughed the killer. He goes downstairs again, and leaves me to die.
Who'll carry the coffin? Me, says the sunset, the whole world will weep, to see me carry it into the deep…
I'm drowning in my own blood. I can taste the rust as it bubbles into foam, which I choke up like a rabid animal. The killer comes back, and throws me into the pile of bodies and I scream in pain. Every part of me seems broken. I try to comfort myself, but nothing comes, no memories or happy thoughts, I'm losing myself and going forever. Abandoning everyone who ever needed me. How selfish am I allowing myself to die at this moment when the world needs me most?
Who'll sing a psalm? Me, says the tractor, with my gear grinding glottle, I'll plough up the stubble and sing through my throttle…
So this is dying. This is how it feels before Death caresses you into his open arms. My eyes are forcing me down again; back into that darkness but this time, for good. I can still make out that robin asleep on the windowsill, and in the distance I can hear the chime of midnight church bells. There is a slight moan as I watch the killer drag in his next unconscious, unknowing victim. Another young innocent male, ready prepared for torture and Death. Suddenly the darkness floods in, I don't dare fight it. I hope I am remembered. Goodbye, wondrous family and crisp autumn leaves. Goodbye, murderous killer. Goodbye, strange little robin.
Who'll toll the bell?
Me, says the robin, my song in October
Will tell the still gardens the leaves are over.
*giganormous; a made up word by young children which is a mix of gigantic and enormous.
Mwahahahahahahahaha
