As Paul awoke from his slumber, he realized that he was nude and laying on his face. The rain that he had fallen asleep in had eaten away at his clothes, leaving him naked upon the ground. Though he had fallen asleep on the spine of the road, he had woken in a field that was covered in an endless amount of blades of grass. The field was an endless valley of grass, as if the whole planet was covered by the green blades. He was the only thing in the vicinity as far as he could see, besides one tree that seemed to curve with the dome of the sky because it stood so tall.
The sun that beat down on him was red hot, causing his skin to burn and caused sweat to drip out of every opening in his skin. Requiring shade, he ran to the tree that lie in the distance, and found just that. Laying his body onto the cold grass, he stretched to take in all of the cool shade and gentle breeze that traveled over head, rustling every branch.
As Paul sat below the tree, the tree grew higher than the sky and vine fell to the ground. He moved his way towards the base of the tree as the flowers started to flourish around him. He could feel the grass begin to dance, as if the wind had blown to a beat, like a drum. He saw hills start to spring up in the distance, and begin to shake. It is as if the hills and mountains are doing the waltz as an earthquake shook the ground beneath him. Paul dug his fingers into the soil as he felt the earthquake shake his spine, but it was not the shaking of an earthquake, but the shaking of a million footsteps.
As Paul looked off into the distance, thousands of heads began to appear over the horizon, men coming to work. They were carrying their axes and hatchets, headed for the tree, their job to cut it to its roots. As the men reached Paul, they picked him up so that he would not be in the way. Thousands upon thousands of hands passed him to a clear spot were a plain chair was waiting.
The chair was smooth, like skin, and was firm like calluses. As Paul sat in the chair, he stroked the arms of the chair, feeling all the crevices and curves. He then realized that he was sitting on the formation of many hands, taken from the near by towns. As Paul tried to jump out of the chair, the hands grasped him and pulled him back into the hands.
“You cannot go,” the hands said, “You cannot save the tree. Its fate was decided by those who we live inside of.”
Confused to his wits end, Paul began to scream out, but this only caused more hands to spring out, covering his mouth, their grasp tighter than the rest.
The hands forced Paul to watch as the workers dismantled the tree. They chopped at the tree, causing screams to come from every branch and every leaf. The wind stopped blowing. The men screamed back and began to pull on the vines that hung from the dying tree as if they were children pulling on their mother’s hair. Blood trickled down the trunk of the tree; drops of blood filled the soil. This caused the flowers to welt because the blood was poisoned from the hatred towards the workers. The grass shifted and moved and ran for fear that they would die, postponing their ever-waking fate. The tree swung its branches, striking the workers that were to close to the tree. The men fought back. They swung their axes, their hatchets, their knives, and their hammers, chopping through the branches like warm and melted butter. Blood oozed and spilled and gushed out of the tree’s wounds, causing it to become weak. The tree wobbled and tumbled and fell, the men ran for safety. The tree hit the ground and crashed through the surface, crushing the flowers and blades of grass that had been spared by the poisoned blood.
As Paul watched all of this happen, his heart and soul and mind became enraged with anger towards the workers. He tried to get up to attack the men, but the hands that detained him tightened their grip because they new the consequences of his actions if they did not hold. Paul began to frantically tear at the hands, causing them to bleed. He ripped apart those who held him, pushing the chair to the ground; it burst into dust.
Paul ran towards the workers, fist clenched, fueled by hate and anger. The workers, knowing he was behind them, stopped and turned around. They taunted and teased and mocked Paul, knowing that he was a greater man then the rest of them. As Paul approached the workers, he received every blow that they threw at him without any reaction, but as Paul got closer to the workers, they aimed more towards his heart. Paul’s hatred grew rapidly as more and more insults came from more and more workers. As he reached the workers, heat ascended from his skin, causing him to look either like a glowing god or devil engulfed in flame. Then the workers, trying to show that they were men, taunted Paul until his breaking point, causing Paul to lash out at the workers.
As Paul swung at the workers, the blows seamed to disappear, as if he was swinging at air; he stopped and opened his eyes. As Paul looked around, all he saw was the fields, covered with grass that moved to a beat. He looked behind him to see the tree that was previously his friend; it lay dead on the ground, putrefied and decomposed. He then looked at the path leading to the tree. It was sprinkled with the bodies of the deceased, unrecognizable by even their kin.
Paul once again fell to his knees, as if he was once again on the spine of the road. Instead of tears, the fire that engulfed him began to fall off his body, setting the dead on fire; the bodies instantly began to turn to ash at the touch of the flames.
Then Paul leaned onto his back, still nude, and began to bathe in the sun and the wind; the grass massaging him to the beat of a drum.
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