3

The snow melted on her cheeks, softly, as if it were caressing her. The great white arm of the oak cradled her so familiarly. The white sky seemed to smile down at her.
“Rock-a-bye baby,” She whispered softly, “on the treetop…”

A deer snapped a twig somewhere below her. She was too lazy to look down at it. Too afraid she might fall.
“That’s how little Johnny died,” she echoed her mother’s words from oh so long ago. Th deer raced away at the sound of her voice.

There was a creaking sound below her.
“Bound to be natural,” She whispered to herself. Bound to be natural in this kind of wind. It creaked again. Well, it couldn’t be the deer, because the deer had run away. Must be another animal. Another creature. She smiled. Just a creature, nothing more.
“Rock-a-bye ba-” It creaked again. “-baby on the-” and there it was again. What kind of creature wouldn’t be afraid of her voice?
Creature…the word ventured through her mind looking for something to connect with. She shook the word away. Animal. Not creature. Above her a crow cawed. She tried to shout out at it, chase it away, but all that came out was the whispered tune to a nursery rhyme. The creaking continued. It was really such a horrible sound. She wished it would stop. She really did…wish that the creature would stop it’s creaking and the crow its cawing. She clasped her hand around her mouth in a soundless gasp. She forced a smile. It wasn’t that bad. Sh simply sounded like an Alice in Wonderland character. Creatures cawing and crow’s creaking. She forced out a laugh. What could be funnier. Cawing creatures and – no, cawing crows and creaking creatures. It was a horrible sound though. Most dreadful. She tried to think about something else.
“Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree-” the crow interrupted with a caw. It would be awfully nice if she could just finish the first verse without being tormented by that horrible sound. Horrible, horrible creaking that could fill every crevice in her mind.
“-top,” she continued. “When the wind blows, the cradle-” The creaking again. ‘Cradle…cradle…cradle…’ her words were caught on the wind and carried away, only to return. A sob escaped her. She gasped. She wasn’t in a crying mood! Not in the least!
“CRADLE!” The crow cawed above her. No. Not possible. Her pulse quickened.
“CRADLE!” It cried out again. The wind carried the word around, to her, once more as the creature below her started its creaking. Creaking the cradle – the cretin – as the crow continued cawing, crying out about the god-damned creaking that the cradle released when the cretinous creature creaked it on command of the cawing crow.
“No!” she cried out, the sound creeping into every crevice of her brain, criss-crossing across her cranium, cramming every square inch of her being with the creaking, the cracking, until there was nothing that remained of her but the sound. The sound of death

“Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle and all,” She whispered softly to herself as she looked down to the soft snow that seemed oh so very far away, where her tiny bundle lay.

The snow melted on her cheeks, softly, as if it were caressing her. She had always wanted a child. Just not right now. Not today, or the day before, or even tomorrow for that fact. Her mother had always said, as she was throwing out the rotten apples,
“When something is of no use, what use is it to keep it?”
But she had always wanted a child. Just not this one. No, she wanted a daughter, her hair as dark as ebony, her skin as white as snow, and her lips, her lips – as red as three drops  of blood on snow.

The original :) unedited and all that

2

The darkness was almost palpable. It formed intricate patterns before her outstretched fingertips. Like a henna tattoo made in the air. Its ink flowing through the air to her palms, flowing down her arms, up her neck, past her temple into her ear, into her being, over her eyes, blinding her. But she welcomed. It was better to be blind here. She didn’t want to see. Not this place. Not this world, and not in this body.
She heard footsteps somewhere near her. Smelt liquorish. The footsteps always came closer, so close. Within arms reach. If she could reach out. But of course she couldn’t. Not even if she had wanted to.
The patterns never stopped forming. Twirling in front of her like a beautiful ballerina. Flowers, leaves, vines, winding their way down her body. Around her toes, around her feet, ankles, binding her to the air. The air around the umbrage. The umbrage thrown by the tree. The tree that stood above her. The tree…she stretched her mind. The tree…had had leaves. She laughed at herself. The tree had leaves. All trees have leaves. Unless they are dead. What if there had been no tree? What if there had been nothing? Nothing at all. What if she was already dead. Tied there. Tied to the great nothingness around her. Dead, beneath a dead tree that does not exist, tied by darkness to darkness. Blind. Her laugh echoed mirthlessly. Footsteps, leaving her.
The invisible patterns never stopped forming. Henna tattoos, tattooed onto the darkness. The darkness of the henna lines barely visible against the invisible darkness of the tree. She heard footsteps coming closer. And closer. Until they were right beside her. Looking down at her with dead eyes. Not seeing her. Just looking. Just being there. Just existing. The person had a long nose. She almost giggled. Her sister would have giggled. His mustache was peachy, and badly grown.He was fat. His belly extended way beyond his shirt’s limits, and burst, bubbling, from just above his belt. His hand was on his belt. His belt…

Her eyes snapped shut. The henna patterns formed again. She could not allow them to stop forming. They must never stop forming…but his face was branded onto her mind. His dead eyes. Her eyes opened, unbidden and unwanted. She could barely see past his entirety. The lone light bulb dangled, burnt out, in the middle of the room. The black walls. The wire of the bulb hanging down for a long time. Her eyes shut. There was no man. There was no light bulb. No walls. No wire. There was only a tree, and a mountain. Or – her mind scrambled desperately – even less. Nothing. There was nothing.Nothing but invisible patterns tracing their way through a nonexistent darkness, somewhere that is nowhere that anyone will ever find, and that no-one will ever see.

The Original, raw, unedited version of 2

1

A misty moon hung lazily in the sky as if it were an abandoned papier mâché ball. It's surface - ugly. Not smooth. Rough. Cavernous. Ugly. Not beautiful.  Above all else, not beautiful.

Like her.

She walked. Hills, grassy, fell beneath her feet. Tough feet. Journeyed feet. She drank in the night sky. The diamond stars. And the ugly moon. Dog panted behind her. She drank him in too. But, he was probably only there for the blood, it trickled down her arm in giant red rivers as if a great dike that had been waiting to shatter finally did.

Finally shattered.

Into a million pieces. Shattered like a mirror. When hit with a fist. Or a plate. Smashed against a shoulder. An egg in a pan. Millions upon millions of eggs made each morning and used for baking, used as distractions from the main issue, from the iron fists of the man who used her and Mr. Johnny alternatively or sometimes together in a violent concoction, as a distraction from the first one, the first wife, the one who was killed by Mr. Johnny himself, and him. Of course. Shattered like an egg.

Or a mind.
An ambulance. Its siren - blaring out. Disrespectfully. Shaking the night. Grabbing it. By its throat. And throttling it. The peaceful night. Under the stars. She thought that she heard waves crashing in the distance. But it wasn't waves - crashing against the rocks. No, the still ocean was too far away. Dog made a strange noise behind her. As if it were drowning. She reached a crest to a hill. There was a forest below her. The city seemed so far away. The mist seemed to be thinning over the moon. She hitched up her dress and ran, with all the might and joy that she could manage. Dog ran beside her, chasing after the twirling figure that seemed to splatter blood wherever she went. But she went too fast. Her feet hooked around her dress.

She fell.

And there were doctors around her. Paramedics. Kneeling over her in the soft grass. the moon peeked over  their shoulders. Clear. She smiled. They were shouting medicine names and other important things. But they were too late. She was free. And they couldn't keep her here. And they couldn't block out the moon.
And it was beautiful.




(below is the original, first draft of 1)