Little Blue Strings

The Whistling Tree

This willow tree is gargantuan, old, and beautiful. It has stood longer than anyone cares to remember, in the same spot, for years and years. It stood when the land was empty and open. It stood through rain and sun, snow and warmth, storms and floods. It stood when the first people came beneath its branches. It stood as a tiny little town grew around it. It stood when a small family made their home next to it. It still stands, silently watching, as the man of this family leans against its ridged bark.

The wind whistles through its elderly branches; a sad, mournful tune. The man sighs, wiping the rainwater from his face. When he pulls his hand away, it is smeared with blood. His fingers trace over his face until they find the source- a cut beneath his eye. More blood coats his fingers. However, he does nothing to stop the bleeding. He only holds his hand infront of him and stares with tired eyes.

"Sorry..." he mumbles to no one but the old Whistling Tree, the only thing that ever listens to him. He isn't sure why he's apologizing, or even what he's apologizing for this time. Everything he does is always wrong. It's never good enough for her. That's all he wants to be. Good enough. Maybe, when he's good enough, she'll be happy. She'll smile again, like she used too.

"Xavier!"

He can hear her screaming. She's drunk again, most likely. But then again, she's always drunk, isn't she? Ever since Emma passed away... Sweet, beautiful Emma... His eldest child hadn't lived all that long. She'd been born like him- with a weak heart. It's his fault she's dead. He doesn't deserve to be a father. He knows it's true; he's told that it is almost every day.

"Xavier! Where are you?!"

He doesn't move. If he waits long enough, she will eventually go to bed. He presses his back against the tree, almost wishing he could melt into it and disappear forever. As much as he wants to, he knows he can't. He still has Theo to care for. Theo, who is out there in the storm, all alone... She's right. He is a terrible father. She's always right...

The rain begins to fall harder, and it pours through the tree's cover, soaking into his clothes and his hair. For summer, it is an oddly cold rain. A shiver dances across his skin, and he sneezes. He's bound to fall ill at this rate, but he's used to it. He's always ill. He suspects it has to do with his heart. A bit absent-mindedly, his hand finds his chest, resting over that useless organ to feel its unsteady, faint beating. It could stop any day. Strangely enough, he isn't afraid for that to happen. He wasn't supposed to have lived this long anyway. There are days he believes it would have been better if he had never lived at all.

Wet, tired and miserable, he slowly lowers himself to the ground. The grass is slick with rainwater, but at least it isn't muddy. He lets his head fall against the bark of the Whistling Tree. Raindrops sprinkle his face, and he closes his eyes.

The thunder rumbles, and the wind strengthens, causing the tree's leaves to shudder and shake against each other. They whisper secrets to him and him alone as the willow begins to whistle its ancient tune. The song in the storm is calming, and it begins to lull him to sleep. It is a fitful, uncomfortable sleep, and when he awakens with a strained gasp, he is not alone. There are hands holding his face with a gentleness he has been starved of for far too long.

"Timothy...?"