The Red Tree

It's that damned book's fault.

It called to me. Seventeen months ago, in that poorly lit used bookstore down on the corner of Elm and Hackett streets, it called to me. It caught my eye as I passed through the aisles, standing at the end of a rack, cover facing out, bound in a peculiar yet familiar shade of gray. It bore no title, and printed off-center on the cover in a rusty color that reminded me of dried blood was the image of a bare tree.

I had stopped and picked it up almost without realizing it. The volume of maybe two hundred pages was heavy yet comfortable in my hands. Whether it had been cut expertly from the book with a razor or had been omitted altogether, there was no title, author, or publisher name printed inside. I was intrigued, so I tucked it under my arm.

The cashier was full of idle chatter as he rang in my selections. All talk ceased when he saw that gray-bound book. His face turned instantly pale, almost translucent. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down and he swallowed with effort.

He told me that I didn't want that book. I told him that it intrigued me, but he insisted. He told me that I could have any other book in the store at no cost, just not the book with the red tree on the cover. I persisted. He then hit a key on his register, grabbed a handful of cash, and held it out. I told him to knock it off.

I should have listened.

I've been reading the book ever since I brought it home that day, but I don't dare describe what it's about. I fear for what it might do to others. Hear me: I do not exaggerate when I say that no matter how many pages I read, hundreds of pages still await me. I've passed through thousands of pages, but the end of the book is still just as far ahead of me as the day I started. It's been driving me to the brink of my sanity, page by endless page.

Once I discovered what the cashier was trying to protect me from, I went back. The store was empty, as if it had never existed at all. In frustration and in fear, I threw the book through one of the windows. I screamed when I found it laying on my kitchen table upon returning home.

I cannot stop reading. Eight thousand pages now.

In the grips of hungry fire, the book doesn't burn. Instead, the fire gutters and then winks out like a birthday candle. I have no choice. Tonight I will finish it. I will finish it and paint my walls with a peculiar yet familiar gray color, and I will draw my own red tree in the rusty color of blood.

The barrel of my revolver tastes oily and metallic, but that's okay.

I'll only taste it for a moment.

-- written by Badass Geek