Sway

Photo by Stiller Beobachter

He died in a forest, surrounded by trees. His body, now still of it's own accord, swung lightly. A rustling breeze masked leather creaking on branch, so that not even the birds back from a quick flight could guess yet what was lost.

Not hours before the choking and swelling, the boy's problems loomed large. His parents threatened public humiliation, teachers talked of expulsion. His friends, all assholes, just laughed. Like they didn't play a part.

So disappearing had been better. A long run in the woods, then a walk, hours or maybe a day gone, lost. Near the trees he could be forgotten and could try forgetting and it hadn't been too much.

But unreturned home there'd been a commotion. What felt scary now turned icy terrifying when the dogs and search party made it clear just how much trouble he was in.

No choice but to pull back, watch the searchers, hide from the seekers. To go back now wasn't an option. All eyes would be on him, so much more than before.

He was sorry it had all happened. He wished he could take it back. But no apology—to his parents, group, or school—was going to fix this, things would never be the same. He'd never seen this kind of shit storm, couldn't imagine it's girth. Instead, he felt deeply the panic it rained down: his own, his mother's, the "community's". The belt was close, emotions too big. He'd show them. Eat my shit, fuckers. In your face, world. 

And with that he let the branches and trees and breeze take him away.