Edging the back fence was a line of birch trees, standing ghostly still against the huge islands of dark clouds rolling in from the south. Their ashen trunks stood stark against the verdant grass spread like a carpet for them to walk on.

A gust of wind sent a profusion of rust-hued leaves somersaulting into the air before settling again, closer to the house. It tousled Lucy’s hair, lifting long blonde strands, before hurrying on. Its absence left a momentary silence which exaggerated the sound of the car pulling into the driveway.

Lucy’s smile evaporated.

The sound of a car door being slammed ruptured the air and set Lucy’s heart racing. Suddenly she found it difficult to breath. Hearing footsteps and the squeak of the gate, Lucy looked expectantly across at the fir tree which stood guard at the corner of the house, and waited.

“Hi, honey,” she smiled weakly as her husband appeared. “Did you…er…have a nice day?”

 Karl shot her a withering look as she got up to meet him, but the hatred in his eyes cautioned her against approaching. She took a step backwards.

“I suppose you’ve been out here all day?” he barked.

“How can you, I, er, I haven’t been….”

Why could she never articulate a single sentence whenever he was around? She hung her head, pretending to examine something on her shoes. Her stomach curled and twisted; her hands balled into fists that she wanted to punch herself with. No, wait. She wanted to punch him with them.

“One day,” she told herself, hurrying into the house after him.

“I’ve got some chicken out for dinner if…”

“We had chicken last night,” snapped Karl.

“No, honey, we had…”

The slap was a white-hot lightening bolt from out of the blue. Lucy’s hand instinctively went to her nose, dabbing lightly at it to test for blood. Tears glittered in her eyes, but she sniffed them back.

“Sorry,” she whimpered. “W-w-w-what w-would you like?”

“Steak,” Karl replied, disappearing into the bedroom to get changed.

“What would you like with it?” she called.

“Surprise me!” he answered.

Lucy’s eyes widened. “Shit!” she muttered under her breath.

Too much responsibility... What if she made the wrong choice? She could end up wearing the dinner she had cooked for him. Chips! He liked chips…and tomatoes: steak and chips and tomatoes. He hadn’t had tomatoes for awhile.

She got him a beer and took the small metal cap off with the bottle opener, left it on the kitchen table for him to collect on his way through to the living room, and then set about preparing dinner.

The minute the sports news had finished, Lucy brought in the tray with Karl’s dinner. She laid it on his lap and stepped back to gauge his reaction. He began to eat it and Lucy sighed quietly to herself. If he was eating it, he was happy with it.

The following day found Lucy out in the garden as usual. After enjoying a coffee by herself on the terrace, she set about raking the lawn. Next, she sprayed some aphids and thinned out a patch of petunias. She caught herself humming several times and thought how much happier she would be if all she had to care for was her beloved garden. Karl’s arrival later that day caught her weeding between the rose bushes.

The car door slamming made her cringe. The blood drained from her face and, as she stood up to ready herself, she pricked her finger on a thorn. The crimson bead swelled, then fell unnoticed from her fingertip to the soil, followed by another which landed on a small patch of purple sweet alyssum.

In the blink of an eye her blood found its way to the root of the rose bush. The sweet alyssum drank thirstily too. Lucy’s DNA was absorbed into the plants she tended so lovingly, and with it went the memory of every slap, punch, humiliation, and belittling comment that had rolled off her husband’s tongue.

The rose bush trembled with rage and sent thousands of pollen spores into the air, a message to those that shared the garden.

“What’re you looking at?” Karl snapped, in a particularly foul mood.

“Nothing,” Lucy replied.

“Then get out of my way!”

Karl pushed by his wife, sending her flying into the rose bushes. She screamed, but Karl only regarded her with a partial turn of his head. Dozens of thorns tore into her flesh, piercing and ripping. Minute ribbons of flesh collected on the woody tips and tiny rivulets of blood dropped onto the soil, sinking under to quench the thirsty roots hidden below. For a moment Lucy’s world blurred. Backwards through the prickly rose bushes she fell, until the sharp pain of her head connecting with the foundations of the house sent a spray of stars swimming in front of her tear-filled eyes.

After Lucy realised what had happened she found she had become wedged between the two rose bushes. Every movement sent jagged spears of pain through her body. The bushes tried their best to move aside, but, since they were rooted in the soil, their generous efforts were to no avail.

“Karl” she called weakly. “Karl, I need your help.”

Only half-expecting him to come outside, she was only half-disappointed when he didn’t. So she took a deep breath. “Stop crying. You’re a thirty-four year old woman,” she admonished herself.

She sniffed back her tears and tried to mentally prepare herself for the intense pain she was going to have to endure as she dislodged her body from the rose bushes. With another deep breath, she lifted her head and braced herself. Closing her eyes and gritting her teeth, she sat up, a thorn gouging her; but she didn’t cry out. She bit down hard and continued to move upwards and outwards, away from her thorny prison.

“Come on then,” Karl smirked.

Lucy gasped. How long had he been there? “You could help!” she said defiantly.

Karl took a step forward. “What did you say?”

Lucy cowered, still half-trapped. She struggled to get the rest of her body away from the thorns tearing new wounds into her pale and bruised skin, while her husband stood watching and revelling in her pain. If she could just…

Then something caught her eye—at the back of the yard, down by the birch trees. At first glance she thought the trees themselves were moving. But she was mistaken. These gangly, grey creatures were stepping out of the tree. One second they were freeing themselves from the confines of the narrow birch trunks and the next they were standing behind Karl, with long stick fingers at the ready.

It suddenly dawned on Karl that Lucy was no longer paying him any attention. He frowned.

“What…”

He turned his head. In a move Lucy only saw as a blur green fingers grabbed the black-haired head of her husband and continued turning it. The snap made Lucy wince, but as the tree creatures let Karl’s limp body fall into the soil below the rose bushes she caught herself smiling. A wave of guilt overcame her and the smile soon vanished. She looked up just in time to catch the tree creatures stepping back into the trunks out of which they had appeared.

She turned back to the body. Thin roots appeared from the soil and wound themselves around the body. Karl seemed to move, an illusion created by the tangle of roots enveloping him and slowly pulling him under the earth. The whole garden seemed alive, electric. The sweet alyssums were shivering and the carnations vibrating. The colours of the flowers seemed more vivid than she remembered.

A root punctured Karl’s shirt and continued into his stomach. Then more and more of the roots found their way through Karl’s skin, piercing him and drinking the warm liquid inside. A large pinkish brown earthworm crawled into a hole left by one of the roots and its tiny mouth set about devouring the flesh. Beetles seemed to appear from out of nowhere as if called to the feast. Then, as he disappeared beneath the rich brown soil, Lucy walked along the garden path and disappeared into the house.      

“Your roses seem fuller and more vibrant this year, my dear” Mrs. Chalmers from across the road said admiringly, later in the week.

“And what about my sweet alyssums?” Lucy replied, beaming. “They’ve gone absolutely crazy.”

The End

Wayne Summers, mansfield82@hotmail.com, author of “Green Fingers,” had a story in Issue 5 of The Ethereal Gazette and other stories slated for On The Night Highways, Theaker’s Quarterly Fiction, Art &Prose Magazine, Night To Dawn, Demon Minds, The Willows and a cover story in Issue Two of Niteblade Fantasy and Horror Magazine.