When the Desert Has Trees

prolouge

Bare feet shuffled across granulated rock made warm by the three suns that hung high the sky. One red, one yellow, and the smaller one (his favorite) blue. It had been this way for aeons. He couldn't remember how long he had been walking. The concept of time seemed to swim in his head, not like a fish in a pond, but more like lazy dolphins a thousand feet deep in molasses, with no hope of coming to the surface for air. His legs were always tired, but never seemed to give out. (When did they ever give out? He remembers the feeling of defeat when they did, but can't remember a specific time when he fell from exhaustion). He supposed he should've been thankful for that, but it felt more like a curse. Half-lidded eyes watched the horizon, dunes of sand shifted due to an invisible wind. Once, in the beginning (if he could even call it that, it had been so long. What did 'beginning' even mean anymore? He couldn't remember how long it had been since then.) he tried to count his steps. He remembered someone, someone, with a kind smile and soft skin telling him, "If you're lost, just stay where you are, wait for help." He couldn't place the face. All he could recall was the smile. The way her lips curled into her cheeks, lips supple, soft, pink, and never cracked. Kindness seemed to pour out from her mouth like honey. He remembers the taste of honey. The thought causes a rumble in his stomach, and the sudden noise elicits a pathetic whine from somewhere deep in his throat. He stopped walking, placing a hand on his neck. He wasn't used to hearing his own voice. He'd stopped speaking long ago. He'd learned that it wasn't really worth the effort in screaming. He checks his pockets for anything to eat. Nothing yet. Every few hours or so, strange looking fruits appear in his pockets. At first he didn't want to eat them; he almost starved. They were delicious. Always strange (albeit sweet) in taste and foreign-looking, he never recognized any of them. They nearly always kept him full until the next one came, however. He had tried to stay in the same place, he had tried for so long, for her. But he couldn't anymore. The longer he stayed, the more the sun burnt his skin, the sand morphing into salt, writhing its way into his burns like acid pouring over a flayed piece of meat. So, he walked. He couldn't think straight anymore, the heat was too much. The heat, the heat! It seemed to crawl its way into his ears, changing the chemical structure of his brain. Turning him into mush, he couldn't think, it was so hot. He kept walking. He was so thirsty, but he couldn't remember what for. He remembers a time when he was surrounded by something blue, like his favorite sun. It made his mouth feel even drier. He stopped remembering.

He'd come to a part of the sand where things like trees grew. He approached one. Their leaves offered no shade, and upon closer inspection, appeared to give off heat. The almond-shaped leaves were golden in color and gave off light. He thought they were beautiful. They reminded him of someone. She was like the smiling woman, but she was younger. She was kind and gentle. She reminded him of a doe when he remembered her. When he tried to grasp her image, however, her face was inaccessible, like all the others. He didn't mind. He remembered flowing skirts with floral patterns and sweet-smelling perfume. The leaves made him smile, but it went just as quickly as it came. A tentative hand reached toward his face. He hadn't smiled in... he couldn't remember ever smiling. The muscles felt sore and unused on his face. His fingers felt rough, but his face even more so. A small amount of stubble had accumulated on his jawline, which had become much more prominent than he felt it should've been. He was surprised, he felt as though the stubble shouldn't be there. How old was he? How old did you have to be to grow stubble? How old was he when he got here? His heart beat faster in his chest, and suddenly the air around him seemed even hotter than it already was. It seemed to solidify in his lungs and he found it hard to breathe. He shut his eyes and clung to the leaves.

The trees had become commonplace. It had also become commonplace for him to check if his stubble had grown at all every few days or so. He felt better, he was keeping track of the days now. He knew it was a day because she always said that you eat three meals a day and so if he'd had three meals, then it had been a day. The stubble never grew. He was relieved by this, but there was also a part of him (in his chest) that felt a little indignant. He didn't know why. He didn't want to get older. He didn't want to die here. Die? He couldn't bear the thought. The darkness sometimes came for him, but he couldn't, he couldn't, he just couldn't go with it. There was something waiting in the desert for him, something important. He had to stay. He kept walking.