Moonlight through the leaves of the Willow tree

He knew he needed to get up, but he was so very tired. He knew that if he didn't move soon, he wouldn't be able to. Old age had caught up with him with a vengenance. But he was so tired, and just a few more minutes here, in this place, would be alright.
It was such a beautiful place. The willow had grown to a staggering height over the years, it's full arms draped down, providing a virtual green curtain to the world. Many a day he had sat in silence and wept for his loss. This was the only spot where no one else was ever around. He was able to escape here without any interruption. The moss always seemed to be grow thick and green, soft enough to provide a comfortable seat. Over the years, he had slowly worn an indention in the ground, providing a slight chair indention. Just a few feet away trickled a babbling brook. He would oftentimes launch a leaf ship down the stream just watching the currents sail it away.
It was an idealistic spot. But one created through tragedy. He planted it the day she had died. They had been a young couple, full of hope and dreams. One fateful night, one tragic accident with a drunk driver, and suddenly he was all alone in the world. He planted the tree on the day he left.
People talked about him for years, wondering what had happened to him, where he had gone. He lost his mind for a time, and wandered the world. For forty years he wandered the earth as a mercenary, a soldier, spy, trader, business tycoon. Forty years of emptiness and regret. Forty years of a lonely existence. While he had met many different women over the years, none had ever been able to take her place. His heart loved only one person. Now and forever.
Finally, tired and weary, with no more mystery left in the world, no wars worth fighting, he came home. People no longer recognized him, no one remembered him; he was able to find the obscurity he sought. Forty years gone was a long time for a tree to grow. It took him a little while to find his old property, the land was still his, but growth had sprung up around it. Nothing looked the way it did when he left.
He spent months cleaning up the property by hand. Cutting down trees, clearing out underbrush, digging a new trench for the brook (now a stagnant pool of debris), it took him a long time, but he was proud of his work when he was done.
But now he was so tired. He wanted to rest just a minute more by the tree. He felt so close to her here. In this spot, so many years ago, he had asked her to be his bride. He could still her voice calling his name. It was a whisper on the breeze. The leaves would move with the sound of his name. She was calling him home.


The neighborhood never really knew who cleared the property. They assumed it was a park. Residents soon came freely to the area, enjoying the tranquility, the peace, and they always felt an overwhelming urge to keep the place pristine, cleaner than they found it.
But the real draw for everyone was the strange willow tree. It was magnificent, obviously old in age with spreading roots and voluminous leaves. But the reason everyone wanted to see the tree was the strange wooden statue that rested beside it. It seemed just a stump of an old tree at first. But if you looked closely, some believed they could make out a face. And that face was smiling from one ear to the other. 

Counsel of Voices

The momentary silence was welcome, a brief break in the onslaught of sound. And he just couldn't tune it out, the voices demanded his attention. Just about everyone was so vocal. All but John, most of the time. But when John did speak up, it was loud, immediate and demanded everyone's attention. John always got his way when he spoke.
Her words reverberated inside his skull. They were all stunned. Silenced in a way that no one had ever expected. He never expected her to turn on him in such a fashion. None of the voices had anything to say. The brief moment stretched further. She obviously was awaiting his answer. He had no idea what to say, he sat there like a deer in headlights, just waiting for the killing blow to follow.
John awoke in the silence with a fury. Before he knew what was going on, he had already left was halfway down the street. John, the fearful one, was in control, going who knew where. All the time muttering, "can't let them get close enough to hurt me..." over and over. John was always the one hurt, he took all the hurt, all the pain, and kept control of it. John was usually complacent to sit in the corner and absorb all the suffering. But occasionally, he seized control in a "flight-or-fight" mentality. And John was always ready to flee.
George raged in the background, he wanted to fight back, to strike back at her. To hurt her more than she hurt him. It was his self-preservation instinct honed to be battle-ready. He wanted to kill everyone and everything, before they could hurt him. George was a bit of a revenge-seeker.
Frederick tried to rationalize everything, to make sense of it all. He wanted reason and logic to rule. Especially considering the raw state of John's emotional outbursts. It left them all hurting and weak. Frederick knew that if he could find a way to offset the power of John's emotions, it would be the end of them all.

He grasped control from John and leaned against the wall. He simply couldn't allow anyone close, they always hurt him in the end. John cheered and George agreed. They finally had reached a unanimous agreement. Something they could all agree on.

Life wasn't so bad alone.