The Blueberry Patch

I grew up in a house with a musician, a painter, a psychic and a linebacker. I was a quiet kid. I didn’t talk much, I didn’t do much, I just thought a lot.

I’d grab my best friend and we would run frantically across the yellowing grass and down the plunging hills. We’d cross the drawbridge and make our way into the forest, our tiny sandals crushing the first of autumn leaves.

We would walk until we found our blueberry patch. There was a tiny stream running alongside it, and the bushes grew in a sort of horseshoe shape. We spent most of our summer days there, talking about things that only mattered to six-year-olds and eating the sweet blueberries nature had given us.

Nobody else knew about our blueberry patch. It was hidden in the depths of the forest, protected by the creatures we had appointed to do so: Bobcats, lions, and sabre-tooth tigers.

Every morning we would meet each other at the top of the biggest hill in town and map out the plans for the day, which always included a journey to our secret blueberry patch.

On warmer days we’d swing out legs over the bicycles we had not yet grown into and pack out wicker baskets full with cheese and cracks, apple juice, Barbies, and other essential items.

We’d propel out legs furiously, pushing ourselves towards the hilltop, then we’d steal a quick glance, grip our handlebars and let go.

I’d close my eyes, but I never dared to take my hands off the bars. If it was a particularly windy day, I could feel myself flying. I’d open my mouth, trying to swallow all the wind of the world, hoping to expand like a balloon and float off into the oblivion where I would make friends with airplanes, seagulls, and hot air balloons. I’d follow the sun wherever I went, constantly bathing in its warmth.

And then I’d stop, having reached the edge of the forest. Melanie would climb off her bicycle and grab the things inside her basket. I would follow suit.

After what seemed like an hour long journey to our secret place, we’d sit down on the large rocks we had arranged to look like chairs. We’d drop our apple juice and Barbie next to us and lean back, looking at the ceiling of the forest.

It looked like one of my uncle’s watercolour paintings; the green and the white blurring together until I could no longer distinguish between the trees and the sky. The birds and the trees spoke to me so softly and harmoniously that it sounded as if they were singing the takes of the forest. I’d hear the rushing stream alongside me and slip into dreams of my past life as a mermaid.

And then I awoke, only to find that Melanie was no longer sitting on the rock next to me. And then it occurred to me, she had been snatched while I was in my dreamscape by the evil sprites that haunted the forest! I leaped up and began my search. I checked under, over, and behind every rock, but still no sign. I looked to the tops of every tree, the sun glaring menacingly, but I could not find her.

I quietly approached the waterside, dipping my hand into the flowing stream gently and then withdrawing it with care, observing my fingers. It took me a moment to realize that…that it was Melanie’s blood that had so viciously attacked my fingertips.

My hands shook and my knees trembled as I fell to the ground. I did not shed a single tear, but I was crying inwardly, crying out to the forest. How could it betray me like this? How?

And then it answered me.

I didn’t speak a single word for forty-six days. I didn’t even speak when they called upon me to explain how she was so brutally murdered; instead I just lowered my head and looked down at my fingers, still emotionally soaked with blood. I swallowed.

I didn’t dare tell them it was me.