Killer

Written 55-H06 [2024-02-07], Edited 55-H06 [2024-02-07]

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Timothy stopped when his face was centimetres from the bark, and looked at the rough, brown surface. On close inspection, it was absolutely crawling with ants. They were unnoticeable from afar but from nearby, the ants were everywhere. It was a wonder Timothy had ever touched the tree in his life.

But he had, many times. He looked at every handhold he had once held as a child, and every foothold he had once stepped on. How many times had he climbed this mango tree, just for the sake of it? Just to see the house and the yard from a different perspective? Or to find a peaceful spot to read on his phone. It was strange to think that a child would find peace in a position where a tiny shift could leave him plummeting to the ground and breaking bones. But that was Timothy long ago.

This tree had not bore any fruit for many years. But Timothy remembered the days when it did. He remembered his smiling mother, holding a stick that could poke the sky and a hook that could barely cut a piece of paper. She would pull on the mangos and he would run around trying to catch them as they fell. He remembered one of the mangoes bouncing around, getting bruised by the stones and bleeding delicious juice. But the bruised ones weren’t his to eat. They were saved for the ants, the birds and other woodland creatures. As far as Timothy knew this habit was not backed by any ancient custom. It was just more convenient to pick another mango and actually catch it properly this time. But then again Timothy was not so traditional.

His mother. How long ago had it been since she had passed, and was left in the ground? How along did everyone grieve, and cry, and stare stoically into the distance?

Timothy took a deep breath, and picked up the axe.

Notes

This was written in 15 minutes during a Joy of Writing meetup.