by B F Jones
Squirrels. Rendered malevolent by the distortion of a cubist dream. A murky forest, somewhat tilted, humidity emanating from the ground, dark trees towering above. And the squirrels. Their rustling. Their twitchy accusing stare, ridding me of sleep.
Night after night, trying to understand the sudden fear, trying to remember.
– Those squirrels, do they do anything significant? Anything to trigger the terror?
– No. They’re just there. In a tree. At night. Looking at me.
– Inside a tree?
– Maybe. Or on it. I’m not sure. The now-familiar fog descends onto my brain as I try to recall.
Dr P. jots down a couple of notes. He suggests a walk in the woods to try to bring back some memories. Seeing the squirrels at daytime in a familiar setting might help understand the dream, even overcome the phobia.
I let my footsteps lead me towards Green Pond, around which I used to run before my accident.
The sun caresses the trees and I spot a squirrel, jumping from branch to branch, oblivious to my presence. I feel nothing but a slight chill. Could this be it? Could I be cured?
Liberation overcomes me and adds a spring to my step, until I trip on a root and fall, palms on to the cold hard ground.
Then I remember. Nebulous images seep into my brain as I slowly gather myself back up.
The darkness.
The laboured breathing and heavy, unsteady footsteps, the swaying of the running headlamp, the grunts and tears and incoherent mumbling coming from my own mouth. The feel of grit under my palms as I gather my strength, panting, on my hands and knees.
And the burst of squirrels out of the hollow tree as I stuff the heavy roll of tarp inside.
B F Jones is French and lives in Surrey with her husband, three children and cat and works as a digital project manager. In her spare time she writes book reviews for Storgy and flash fiction. She has stories published in The Cabinet of Heed, Bending Genres, Spelk, Back Patio, Funny Pearls and The Fiction Pool. Follow her online @Fijo_Frenchie.