In These Silent Woods

by Lolita Westmore

I cannot remember how long I've wandered these woods or why. I cannot recall a face, save for one who's all but faded from memory. What could await me at the end of this monochrome labyrinth? Short drabble, a bit of a what if Halloween Town was the afterlife sort of thing. K for a melancholy tone.

I don't own The Nightmare Before Christmas.

The trees, their rough nude bodies exposed to the frigid air without a blanket of leaves, are dead. The ground, baked with footprints and a frosting of underbrush, is dead. The sky, painted in shades of grey with no highlights, is dead. I, clad in black gauze and lace from head to foot, am dead.

Not even the wind cares to summon a slight breeze and disturb the silence in the woods. Not even my footfalls seem to make a sound as they press into the leaves below. Not even the fauna chirp nor squeak to acknowledge my presence nor flee at the sight of this black specter floating towards them.

I see and hear all and nothing more. Where I'm heading to I've not a clue. I trod on and on, deeper into the dead woods, deeper into the silence. Silhouette erect, hands clasped to my breast, skirts flowing from my waist, I carry on to destination unknown. Will I be greeted by light of honey and seraphic horns? Will I be greeted by tongues of scarlet and anguished wails? Or will I be trapped in these silent woods, to wander forever more?

Broken marble crosses and bumps change guard with the trees, assuming more erratic patterns of watch. The clouds become sheer, revealing a peek of a dull gold sphere to color this world. Airbrushed onto the dusty road a hill curves into a tight spiral at its end, the only detail on this sparse tableau.

A hilled bowl rests a mile ahead, the contents resembling a child's crude drawings on houses and people. Lopsided and spiraling and oozing and laughing, it brings an ever so slight smile to me. My stride grows as I carry on to take part in the merrymaking, as a breath of wind kisses my cheeks.

The gates are neither of gold nor fire, but stones melded helter skelter. The voices are neither angelic nor cacaphonic, but a symphony of shrieks and cackles. The one who greets me wears neither white robes nor red robes, but a suit of black accented by a plump white rose.

He extends his hand gracefully, joy and serenity illuminating his face as he whispers "I've missed you my dear."

I place my own hand, the lace glove now only a few spidery threads, into his and look into his black eyes. In them, I see my gown in tatters draped over my emaciated frame and straggly red hair hang limp over my ashen complexion. In front of me, his flesh is more like snagged silk with the throat being beyond a seamstress's skill. My heart melts as we adore each other.

In life, we failed to belong and were shunned by all. In death, he found freedom while I pined at the altar to uncaring faces. I found nothing but misery and hopelessness in these woods, when I prayed for comfort and serenity.

Even with the gloom above, we finally found light.

Even with our corpse-like visages, we finally feel ethereal.

Even with the dead all around, we finally feel alive.

We finally belong.