Every night I wake up under the same crooked tree; cottonmouth. My eyes burn and droop down my face like they’ve been open forever. I can hear it whispering to me, the tree.

“speak the truth.” It’s words are carved in bark, sap bleeding out. But I don’t know. I don’t know the truth, and every morning is the same.

I walk home, my feet dragging along the asphalt, the sun burning through my skin. I wonder what I look like inside. Am I still this hopeless?

Every night I end up walking back to that same crooked tree almost subconsciously. On my knees, I beg in front of it, my hands stained red. It always speaks to me, but it never says anything I want to hear.

“I have come here to save you.”

“Then save me,” my voice is gravelly, each word having to scrape it’s way out. “please?” I grip the dirt, tears of agony sliding down my face.

I’m afraid of silence. I’ve never been one to sit there and enjoy it. Small weeps, like the ones of a child, echo through the air. “No more, please.” I beg.

“One more—“

“Please…”

Every night I bury another person under the same crooked tree in order to die in peace. I’d like to die with a conscience clear but… it’s just never enough. I’m saving them so that I can be saved, but I can’t help and feel I’ll never be.