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Broccoli Tree (ifana8)

Broccoli Tree

"Broccoli Tree... killed daddy?"

"It sounds strange, right? The title of the painting?" I smiled at the confusion in Mr. Jerome's eyes. I was confused too that stormy afternoon.

My father and I used to play hide and seek. He was a busy man, so it wasn't often. Only when he was somewhat free to spend time with family.

Our favourite spot was in the middle of a forest that faced our mansion— my former home. I remember hiding under the tangled roots of a tree. The tree itself reminded me of the broccoli mum would hide in my sandwich every now and then. I hated vegetables, that's why. Ironically, it was this mighty tree the gale pulled down on my dad that day. The day he didn't want us to play, but eventually gave in to his twelve-year-old son's persistence.

I didn't escape the sight, of course. I planted my feet on the slippery ground, ignoring the pour of the rain as I stared at the shattered bits and pieces of my father's skull. It was when my mother found me that I let my tears fall. Everyone knew it was my fault as my mother narrated the "anticlimactic"(as the press called it) death of a great politician, but no one pointed fingers. After all, I was a naive child. No one could be seen blaming me.

"It's a weird watercolour, isn't it?"

Jerome's nine-year-old daughter twisted her lips. "More like creepy..."

"Hush, Abby!" He exclaimed. I turned to my sister-to-be.

"She's right," I knelt in front of her, the smile from earlier still on my lips. "The real thing was even creepier." Abby's eyes rounded, then darkened with a familiar feeling: fear.

Fear in the form of Broccoli haunted me years after my father's death. It still haunts me sometimes. Then, Mother warned me to stop visiting the forest, certain the memories of smashed skulls won't affect me as long as I didn't go to the source of my horrors. I heeded her warning. Broccoli tree invaded my home instead.

Some days, it felt like its roots—the ones I once found shelter in— had slithered into my house—into my dreams— choking me. These roots were cufflinks around my sanity. And seeing the forest with every sunrise was not helping. Broccoli's companions were the weapons in his arsenal. Seeing them tortured me. They accused me of murdering my father. Their rumbles became a familiar torment, and when my screaming wouldn't stop, mother knew a change of scenery was needed. So, we moved away. She sold the house, but the buyer hadn't moved in for years. I don't care enough to know the reason.

A total change in life was needed for both of us anyway. Mother sought for change more than I did. Hence, the two people beside me.

"No wonder you no longer live here. Before now, I thought dumping this house was a waste. Why did you leave the painting there, though?" The little girl gestured towards the house and the painting that leaned on it, her eyes back to its almond shape. I could've laughed at her uncharacteristic words, but I was used to it. Abby was a smart girl. Instead, I said:

"I don't remember. But it doesn't matter now. My mother's marrying your dad in two weeks. She thinks I should also put the past behind me before I enter my senior year." Abby bobbed her head like she understood every word I said. I wouldn't be surprised if she actually did. Her father, on the other hand, had pity swimming in his eyes as he stared at me. I rose to my full height.

"I wouldn't have brought you here, as my mother wished. But I think it's necessary to know this part of our past before you marry my mum. I like you, Jerome, and I'm glad you asked me to drive you three thousand miles away from home to show you this. It's nice that you care. Thank you."

He didn't say anything for a while, his face pensive.

"I'm really sorry, Steven." He raked his hand through his silver hair. "Now I feel like an intruder."

"Oh no!" I waved my hands frantically. "Don't you see how my mother acts around you? She hasn't smiled like that in a long time. I like you two together. And I'd certainly like a father who shares my love for painting." I shoved him playfully.

"Ouch!" I yelled, clutching my toe. Abby glared at me. "Don't hit my Dad!" Jerome laughed.

"It's alright, dear. He was just playing." Abby snorted. I expected a stubborn sister. Jerome smirked at me, then went closer to the painting. Being outside for years, its colours had faded into an ugly blend of green and red. Somehow, Jerome deduced something from it.

"You're a natural, Steven. How did you paint something so...detailed when you were only twelve?"

I chuckled. "Well, sir, when a child sees death under a "Mr Broccoli", it hardly leaves the active imagination. Plus, the demons have to find an outlet somehow. When therapy stopped working, I bled my dreams onto paper. It's not even detailed, see? The colours have blended into one another."

Jerome bent towards the painting, studying it like the artist he is. "I know a good work when I see one, especially of someone that age. I'm glad you started with acrylics though. Based on relativity, it's definitely the better choice. Watercolour is limited in advantages."

"Agreed."

Jerome rose, his eyes still on the picture.

"Looking forward to knowing you, son. Both you and your mother."

My father used to call me that.

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