I thought of this cherry tree, barren and burdened, every time I fell sick. Homesick for my family across the ocean, reachable to me only through the twitching pixels on my phone, kept away by cold unfeeling borders and traditions that could not encompass me. Gut-sick from the heavy creams and oils the wife and her husband used in their cooking, from the milk and flour corrupted by this country’s government that revolted in my stomach. Lovesick, sick of this pining for the wife, for a family, for the life she already had. Rage-sick for every moment I believed it was mine only to be reminded it was not.
I awoke one night in a fever. My T-shirt was soaked through, I wrestled the sheets off, and the next moment I was shivering, tugging them back to my chest. Before sleep, I’d cracked my window to let in the breeze, but the air was stagnant, forcing itself upon me. Outside, creatures squabbled in the backyard, screeching the ungodly echoes animals make only in the freedom of night. I twisted my eyes shut, begging for sleep, but the creatures were gaining fervour, vehement, like a pack descending. I pictured the wife’s flower garden and shot up. Before I had a chance to reconsider, I was wedging my feet into my slippers and reaching for the mug of stale coffee that sat on my dresser. It was bitter, tepid, a terrible idea, and my stomach rioted instantly. Without turning on any lights, I felt my way down the stairs, my steps more assured as I entered the kitchen lit by the pale glow of the moon.
The air outside was warm, but there was the slightest draft that soothed my burning skin. Despite my presence, the screams were growing in intensity. It was almost deafening; I was certain something was being attacked. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I had a vision of a cat curled in the dirt, its eyes being pecked out by a crow, blood matting its fur, its ears. I’d seen it as a child in the alley behind my home wandering back from school one afternoon. The cat had kept fighting, its paws swatting, catching the oily black wing. The noise, then—I don’t know if it was cat or crow—was a shriek so haunted it could only have come from death. The sound had filled every space inside me, spreading like a venom. I could see nothing but black and the imprint of red from the cat’s eyes, that brutal vision I wanted to unsee. I went mad inside of it. Poisoned, rabid, I charged. I smacked against the building, my elbow peeling up, my blood marking the place. And that sound, what was it, that awful, deathly wail? Even after the crow had fled, I stomped the place where it had stood, my fists colliding against the wall and that sickened, sickly moan.
That poison swelled through me again imagining roses scattered across the grass, the wife kneeling in the dirt, lifting fistfuls of shredded petals to her temples, mute with grief. I rushed at the garden, the orbs of magenta and purple bobbing at the sky, my breath tearing out of me. The rosebush rustled, nails scrabbling at soil. It was not a cat but a family of raccoons, rummaging and cackling beneath the shelter of the tallest poppies. Addicts, I thought. Who knows what gathering this was, what had drawn them here to commune. Their eyes glinted silver. When they saw me, they chittered and hustled away, darting ungracefully between the bushes, leaving behind only the shudder of leaves, the faintest indents in the soil.
I stood in the centre of the flower garden, panting into the dark. The night was silent, serene, as if I had imagined the entire scene. And yet I couldn’t shake the feeling of danger. My body wasn’t finished, my brain whirred with the instinct to defend. Still I gripped the coffee mug, insides stained like mud. I stepped out of my slippers, the soil cool beneath my toes, and peeled down my underwear. The cup, when I squatted over it, filled quickly. My scent was pungent, fevered. Tugging my clothes back up, I left my slippers in the dirt and began circling the perimeter of the flower patch, sprinkling the warm liquid in a scattered stream. I made it last until I had completed the circuit, shaking out the final drops—though the sky was still black, I could see the ground shimmering, a brilliant, menacing orb of protection. I walked away, my temperature dropping, my thoughts growing clear.
Only when I had reached my room did I realise I had left my shoes in the garden. My soles were rusted with soil, and a faint trail of black followed me to my bed, the dark line like a shadowed arrow tracked all the way through the house. I felt awake, as if shaken from a nightmare. Sitting on the edge of my bed with dirtied feet, I understood what I had done. My head grew light, I felt I might vomit. I saw the raccoons staring back at me, their eyes holding the moon. Who did I believe myself to be, claiming the whole garden as if it were mine? I had not even questioned that it was my territory; that knowledge had flooded me like a venom. I was saturated in it, and soon I might drown.
In the alley, when I’d emerged from my rage, the cat had also disappeared. Marking where it had lain, a few drops of blood were being absorbed into the dust, the land already claiming them back. I remembered choking out a cry. I had hoped to stroke my finger over the cat’s forehead, feel the soft swell of her belly beneath my palm. I had hoped, having saved her, to feel her heartbeat settle with my touch.
