An Autumn Grave

Photographer - Tobi Brun

An Autumn Grave

His eyes opened to the sound of cicadas; their discordant melody celebrated their brief existence in this world. The low crackled groan of meandering frogs added harmony to the shrill trill of the lonely katydids. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the looming oak trees, scattering the soft rays across the forest floor. He watched the way this brilliance peaked through the dark cracks and burnt the autumn colors. Orange turned to gold, and gradients of brown were painted across the dead leaves. Rust-colored pine straw glittered like threads of molten bronze as they intertwined into a thick blanket across the ground. There was something infinite about this moment. Allen felt like he could lose himself in it, and there was a chance that if he did, no one would ever find him. He could disappear right there as if he had never existed at all. 

As a blackbird lifted into the air, calling obnoxiously as it went, tears clouded his vision.

“Why?”

His voice was soft. Quiet. Allen could barely recognize that he had spoken — the rustle of dry leaves and the low howl of the November wind had stolen the sound. If it hadn’t been for the dull feeling of his jaw moving or the dry, chapped corners of his lips touching together, he would have thought that the forest had hushed him. Silenced him. With their long, gnarled limbs stretching towards the sky, the trees swallowed him whole. There was a dull ache in his chest – a soft throbbing as he tried to piece himself together. What am I crying for? No reply came to his question. The wind only rustled through the leaves and momentarily shifted thinner branches. Allen lay in the shade and stared up at the spaces between each leaf. With the slow awakening of his consciousness, he tried to remember where he was or why he was there. Alone. Where am I? Everything around him was beautiful, still and serene, in its quiet stasis. Yet, the repose bordered on alien. The cold earth beneath him and the tiny grains of dirt between his fingers. The light and the shadows it cast, and the distant march of the abstract clouds in the sky. It was all too perfect – too harmonious. There was no one else in the lonely forest, nor any tracks or trails. For as long as he could see, there were simply rows of trees, their limbs, and an outstretched of leaves across the floor. 

But something pulled at him – a gentle urge beckoned him forward through the uneven rows of limbs and fallen leaves. The ground beneath his feet as he stood felt foreign and his feet felt weightless. He followed the feeling, unaware of himself, until Allen stood in the shadow of a decrepit brick building outlined by the light of what seemed like a never-ending morning. The pale, white walls were harsh against the autumn background. Disjointed. It was as if God had simply discarded it there – careless and haphazard. If the house had ever been occupied, the signs barely showed. Even from a distance, the weathered marks of age could be seen sketched across the surface. Vines had sprouted from the ground and nestled in the cracks between the bricks and concrete that had once perfectly secured their placement. Thin tendrils stretched across the walls like capillary veins, while small leaves plastered themselves against the lead paint. 

The house had never looked so old before. 

But I know this place. In his memories, Allen could vaguely imagine it, though the image was fragmented. When the panicked thrash of his body had succeeded in pushing the blindfold upwards, enough that his eyes stung from the sudden influx of light, the house had appeared horrifically normal. The paint had been white then, pure like a sheet of paper, as he glimpsed it from the back seat window. 

Allen took a breath.

He crossed the overgrown grass. The passage of time had enabled it to grow tall and lick at the upper edges of the foundation. It swayed gently as he passed, bending ever so slightly to allow him to draw closer. The leaves kissed his hands and arms, grazing against his skin as if their comforting touches could ease the ache in his chest. Allen smiled, ever-so-slightly, as the echoes of the past drifted by with the faint brush of the wind. 

***

With the sunlight beaming down on him and gently warming every inch of his uncovered skin, Allen remained on the verge of falling asleep. He had been so tired. Exhausted. The subtle summer breeze brushed through the grass, rustling the blades and kissing his skin. He took a slow, quiet breath and smiled at the smell of warm biscuits and freshly melted sugar in the air. She must be nearly done baking. Allen felt the slightest hint of guilt. He had meant to help his grandmother finish the desserts, but the temptation to lie on the grass and enjoy the prolonged nothingness had been too convincing. He rarely got to relax. With every light, shallow breath, his consciousness slipped from his bones, stealing the tension from his overworked limbs. His mind drifted away, revolving slowly as the world gently spun on its axis. 

A warm, hard weight smacked against his face.

Then, another. 

What is it now? Allen debated whether to define its properties – if he opened his eyes, he could see whatever projectile decided to rupture his descent into peace. Or I can just let it go and try to sleep.

 Crumbs fell on his face, pattering his skin like grains of sand. Above him, a voice giggled. 

“Sugar rain!” 

“I thought you were helping Grandma,” Allen sighed and reached up to brush the morsels from his face, “Or bothering the dogs.” 

“I’m feeding the birds.” 

He opened his eyes, lazily looking up at the sharp, shark-toothed grin plastered on his sister’s face. In her hands, the remains of freshly baked biscuits were pulverized between her fingers. A lump of biscuit fell from her hands, bouncing off Allen’s nose and rolling into the dirt. 

“I don’t think any birds plan on eating breadcrumbs off my face, Laura.” 

She frowned and shrugged. With a fistful of biscuits, she pulled her hand back and launched it into the distance. Closing his eyes, Allen settled back into the dirt. 

He relished in the silence — then let out a pained grunt as a heavy weight dropped onto his stomach. 

“Laura!” 

“I wish we could stay here forever.”

Allen looked at her, the annoyance replaced by concern. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat and covered with stray crumbs. But she smiled, silent for once, relaxing in a way Allen had never seen. Reaching up, he brushed away the bits of biscuit from her face. 

“I know.”

Laura looked down at him, her blue eyes iridescent in the sunlight. She shifted, settling her weight more comfortably on Allen, and smacked her hand across his chest. With each swat, he winced as the crumbs flew into the grass. 

“If you could stay anywhere forever, where would you stay?” 

He thought for a moment then stared up at the clear, endless sky of blue, “Somewhere sunny — quiet, but with lots of places to go.”

“Sounds boring, I’d want to stay in space.” 

Allen snorted, shaking his head, and closed his eyes. He felt Laura move and sucked in a sharp breath as her elbow jabbed his neck. Her hair fell into his eyes. But as she laid her head on his chest, he smiled. 

The silence returned, for a moment, until she softly whispered, “Or with you, I wouldn’t mind staying with you.”

***

Laura.

More tears gathered in the corner of his eyes. 

Where was she? The surrounding forest was soundless – a perfect paragon of abandoned tranquility, but the loneliness felt suffocating. With silent steps, he climbed up the cracked stairs, careful not to crush the dandelions that grew from between the jagged gap of stone. Age had not made them kinder. Their rough concrete surfaces, which had once ripped through his skin, were covered in flakey mint-colored lichen. As he reached the rough, wooden patio, Allen paused for a moment. The pads of his fingers curled up into his palm, while his eyes glanced at the top right corner of the last step. 

Some unknown part of him recognized it.

Without seeing through the haze obscuring his memory, Allen knew the final step was the one that had hurt the most. The memory returned to him quietly. He felt sickened, disturbed that his mind simply accepted – the fact that his head had been bashed into the stone. Over and over again. He had been punished for the strangled screams in his throat and the rugged effort he had made to break free. Allen reached up and rubbed at his temple. The images in his mind felt invasive – unfamiliar. Were the memories even his? He felt the wispy strands of his hair, searching, but the soft, caramel locks were no longer flattened by blood. There was no wound, but the memory played with a distant viscerality. It felt familiar. He touched his head again. There was nothing, but the press of his fingers to cold skin couldn’t ease the phantom ache. He could feel the ghost of hands intertwining through his hair, pulling and tearing as they dragged him along. But, like a twisted joke, the marks were gone as if they had never existed at all. Why can’t I remember? Allen ran his hands through his hair and mapped every inch of his uncovered skin. He tried to find evidence of the abuse. Somewhere. Anywhere. 

Nothing.

Allen closed his eyes. The reminiscent ghost of bruised bone beneath torn skin and clots of dried blood replayed in his head. His hands clenched, tightly squeezing their calloused skin. The air felt thick and heavy in his lungs. Fear, like needles beneath the surface of his skin, pricked every inch of his arms. Nausea rolled inside his stomach; his muscles squeezed until it hurt to breathe.

Here, hold my hands and squeeze. Just try to breathe again, okay? I’m right here, Laura.

His heart thundered in his chest, beating against his ribs, and he choked on the air. The world felt faint, distant and ephemeral, like it could crumble into dust at any moment. Breathe. He tried to picture Laura. Her soft, chubby cheeks and her stubby fingers. The ladies in church teased her, their soft voices poking fun at the way fat was distributed across her body, but she was perfect. Happy. Allen wanted to see her smile and feel her small hands touch his own again. He missed her – her baby eyes and curly hair. They had matching caramel strands and a splatter of freckles across their noses. The same sharp teeth, though Allen’s peaked more visibly from his lips, but it reminded him of their mother anyway. They both loved a little too much and cried a little too hard when the world in their head caved in. 

Why am I here? 

Allen looked back up at the broken door. Mold had eaten away at the frame, splintering and bending the weathered wood as the metal hinges that held it in place melded from bronze to brown. He tried to see himself in the yellowed remnants of the glass windows held by the doorframe.

 But the face of someone else flashed by.

Sharp teeth, carnivorous canines. Brilliant blue eyes, and calloused dirty hands. Long, blonde hair pulled into a tight, unwashed ponytail. A recollection of the smell of sweat stuck to his skin. Breath that reeked of rotten eggs and cheap whiskey. 

Allen blinked, and the fragmented memory vanished. A thick layer of dust and grime was all that remained. A slow, sickening feeling of dread washed over him. In the distance, a crow sang a low, mournful sound. The face, like a piece of a stained-glass window, flittered through his memory. Disconnected. A fraction of a whole that remained close — Allen could almost recall it — but still unrecoverable.

As the wind brushed against his arms, he fell to his knees on the stairs. His heart stuttered in its rapid rhythm. The face, a blurry momentary glimpse, remained vivid behind his eyes. From the depths of his subconscious, a low, hushed voice whispered.

What would your sister say if she could see you like this?

***

Light pierced through the beige curtains, cutting through the thick blankets of dust. Small, shimmering particles danced in the light as they spiraled down inside the warm beam. Burns were scattered like water droplets across the floor. Small piles of yellowed powder and pebbles of debris had clumped in corners of the room beneath low, curving dips in the ceiling and tattered holes where the wood had been broken through. Mold licked at the countertops. Rusted forks and spoons were haphazardly strewn beside the sink. Loose papers and notecards, spotted red from the years of abandonment, were limply rested on the slanted remains of a wooden table. Some were taped across the yellowing surface of a fridge that sank downwards through the dip in the softening linoleum. 

With the lightest ghost of a touch, Allen ran his fingers across the countertop as he passed through the room. Funny, how easily something ages when people forget it’s there. Carefully, he moved around the small piles of debris and broken plates. He glanced at the writing on the table, disturbed piles of letters intermingled with the remnants of folded newspapers. Time had faded their ink, while evaporated water had painted a murky black ocean over the wide, cursive words strung together with elegant, looping curls. 

Allen eyed it wearily.

The same neat, looping handwriting had been printed on the letter he was given, and Allen had taken it as a sign of authority and opportunity. How could he not? His name had been so prettily scrawled across the top of the letter. The man had smiled so brightly when he squeezed Allen’s shoulder, promising him that it would be a chance at a new life. Jeremy Wessan treated Allen like he was special. When he saw the cuts and bruises on Allen’s arm, he bandaged and iced them himself. You remind me of my son – you’re a good kid. Allen preened himself on the affection. Desperate. The cash inside the folded envelope was enough to afford ice cream and the cost of Laura’s therapy appointments. Jeremy promised him that he’d be back before nine each night. If he took it and budgeted his month’s paycheck, Allen was certain he could afford to buy the light, rose-colored bunny that Laura had eyed so greedily as they walked home from the grocery store.

He had wanted to give her something new — something soft and good. 

Turning away, Allen abandoned the kitchen. He walked through the wide opening, stepping with silent footfalls on the dark, molded rug. Jackets, shirts, and pants were thrown in large piles in the adjacent room. Their limp cotton limbs fell to the ground and stretched towards abandoned plastic toys, books, and magazines beyond their reach. Cobwebs clung to the spaces between the scratched furniture and the cream-colored walls. Layers of paint peeled and fell in little flurries of white specks to the floor. Against the furthest wall, a grand piano basked in the sunlight beside a plaid sofa. Pulled by an invisible string, Allen moved towards the bright beacon of light. He placed himself in front of the piano and studied it, noticing the places where the once-glossy finish had been scratched off. Slowly, he reached out to touch the long, discolored scratches across the cover. 

He smiled. 

His fingernails scraped the surface, retracing their marks. Allen had always told Laura that if she were in trouble to use her nails. Rip them to shreds darlin’ and don’t you ever fuck stop. Splatters of blood had stained the couch, forming a dark cloud over the parallel stripes of brown, red, and beige. The dent in the wall had never been patched. Cobwebs hung from the splintered wood and a spider had crafted her web within the hole. Fingernail marks were stretched across the base of the piano. Allen glanced at the low-cut cuticles of his nails. 

The blood was gone from beneath them now. 

He closed his eyes. Why am I here? He received no reply. What’s the point of all this? There’s nothing here anymore, no one is here. An answer still didn’t come. All that was left in Allen’s head was a memory — the trembling fear as his fingers swept across the piano keys, relying on muscle memory to push him on. 

Jeremy Wessan said he was a businessman from Idaho. 

It had been a lie. 

Allen’s arms trembled as he played. The large looming shadow of a man cast above him, an ax peeking out in the corners of his vision. As the song came to a close, thunderous laughter and shouts intermingled with the deep chords of a sonata in F minor. Roughly, a hand had slapped his back. 

Faster.

Allen’s fingers had been frantic. 

Faster – come on! 

Light droplets of blood had been left on the keys. 

Come on, boy! Play it louder — let me hear it! 

He had never allowed himself to cry even as the tears gathered in his eyes. 

That’s it, glory hallelujah — keep it going, boy, I’ll lop your fuckin’ head off! Come on, faster!

Laura had always loved it when Allen played for her. She would sit on the bench beside him and lean, her hands neatly folded in her lap as she watched him. It was rare when Allen would have time, he could only play for her when their father was gone, and Allen had to take multiple shifts at the bar downtown. But, when the opportunity came, he tried to entertain her — the music seemed to calm her constant anxiety. As she listened, her eyelids would flutter shut and Allen would feel the weight of her head against his side. Sometimes, Laura would sleepily mumble aloud, reminding him that she liked the sound.

He had wanted to teach her to play one day. 

***

Allen missed his mother. Desperately. The hole in his soul was large and aching, and it was shaped like her. Though she had been gone for years, he could still conjure hazy memories of her. Her bright, wide sharp-toothed smile. The way she laughed like a lion roared, and the roll of her eyes when she reminded everyone that she couldn’t care less of what any man thought of her for it. Sometimes, Allen would list the things he remembered or knew. She smelled like chamomile and lavender. Her favorite color was gold, and she thought dresses were nicer than skirts. Her parents hadn’t been able to afford to send her to college, but she learned piano and made a living playing in bars. They died in a car accident, but she told everyone that she could hear their voices singing loudly when she slammed her fingers down on the keys to play hymns for the church. Everyone said she moved like she was possessed when she sat at a piano. Allen’s mother had married at nineteen, given birth once at twenty, again at twenty-five, and then vanished a month later. 

No one knew where she had gone. 

Allen looked like his dad, and Laura looked like someone completely different. They both smiled and laughed like their mother, but Laura was short, tan, and prone to outbursts. If Allen wasn’t there, she could break into a screaming fit and choke on her spit until she vomited on the floor. A lot of people had things to say about it all to him — theories and speculations about his father’s alcoholism, his mother’s disappearance, and Laura. 

None of it mattered. 

We’re made from the same blood and bones. Laura had his mother’s eyes and her warmth. She smelled like chamomile and talcum powder, and she would raise her hand to ask the preacher in church if anyone had heard from God yet, or if he was still missing like her mother. Always unaware of the way people looked at her and the things they would say.

Allen loved her. How could he not? She was all he had left of his mother – the only thing that could fill the space in his chest that had only seemed to grow with every passing year. He would have done anything for her, and he did everything he could to protect her. When their father came home, a bottle in his hand and demanding to know where the little monster was hiding, Allen hid her in a closet. He took the punches for her and cleaned up the blood – his father’s and his own – so she didn’t worry. 

Laura deserved to be happy.

Looking down, he stared at the chains on the floor. They lay limp on the floor, their surfaces rusted brown and orange. Dried blood discolored the concrete floor. A pillow remained discarded on a pile of sheets. Light, yellow stains intermingled with dark, black spots of mold. A red plastic bucket sat in the corner of the room. Black water remained stagnant within it, and the smell of urine was thick. In the air, the scent mixed with mold, mildew, and decay. It was a putrid, rotten odor, and it fought for dominance against the damp, earthy air. 

Allen breathed it in. His eyelids shut and his head tilted back. He asked himself the question again, though he knew he didn’t have an answer and there was no one else that did.

Why am I here?

In chunks, the gaps filled themselves in — the outline of the sketch finally colored in by some unknown force of nature. A knee pressed painfully into his back, digging into the bruises where a baseball bat had been repeatedly smashed against his skin. The quick electric jolt as a sharp knife split the skin of his shoulder blades, and the searing burn as it tried to push through the tough muscle beneath. Night after night, Allen pissed himself. The smell of vomit and urine was suffocating, but the feeling of it on his skin was nauseating. He screamed. Prayed. At first, he begged God, and then he pleaded with whoever might hear. Please, someone. I don’t want to die here – I want to go home. He had cried for his mother —for anyone, even though no one could hear him. 

Mama.

He didn’t know why he had thought she might save him — maybe she was dead herself.

And now, as he stood in the quiet little underground room, his fingers twitched, aching as if they were still suffering. A raggedy, pink stuffed bunny sat on a table, accompanied by rusted tools – saws, hammers, and dozens of nails. The beady, lifeless black eyes watched him. Allen stumbled forward and fell to the floor in front of it, he reached out to touch it and felt the soft fabric against his fingertips. He tried to grab it and hold it close, desperate to find any comfort as the damp walls closed around him, but the bunny didn’t move. 

Why was he here?

There was no point. The lonely little house had been abandoned for years — left to rot and collapse in on itself. Time would steal it away. In years or decades, there would be nothing left except stone and fragments of a memory that would never be pieced together. 

And nothing would change, none of it would ever matter.

Allen was dead, and he would still be dead decades later. His body would stay in the dirt beneath a tree. An unknown grave among an endless collage of brown limbs and vibrant leaves. No one would ever know where he went. Allen had disappeared, vanishing as if he never existed at all. The bunny remained limp and lifeless – an undelivered gift. A broken promise. Allen stared into its eyes and sniffled as he started to cry. 

This shouldn’t have happened, not to us – not after everything we’ve been through.

The final pieces of his life returned to him.

*** 

Allen raced towards the decrepit home. The front door, weakly clinging to its hinges, was left ajar and it slammed against the wall as Allen barreled inside. Please don’t let it be too late. He offered a quick prayer to God. Navigating through the collapsed piles of newspapers, he gracefully avoided the pools of broken glass and battered, overturned furniture. 

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

In the small space of their living room, his father stood hulking – heaving large, stuttering breaths as he looked around wildly. His hands wrapped tightly around a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. He raised it.

Laura screamed. 

“Don’t fucking touch her!” 

Their bodies collided, smashing into each other. Allen’s chest heaved and ached. Hands turned into fists, and the living room became a boxing ring. Bruised skin. Busted lips. Broken porcelain plates, their intricate patterns cracking and dismantling like a torn-up puzzle box set as Allen collided with every table, cabinet, and chair in the room. The smell of cigarettes and beer was suffocating as his face was pressed against the carpet, his father’s hands around his throat. Blood dripped from his nose. His ribs burned. 

“Stop it – stop fighting!” 

Laura shouted. Her voice wavered weakly – stuttering and warbling like a baby canary. The weight lifted off Allen. He coughed, gasping for breath. His head spun. An ache beneath his eye throbbed as he tried to blink. Droplets of blood stained the beige carpet, and it joined a growing pool of brandy. The bottle of Jack Daniels sat beside him. 

“Please – I’m sorry. Please, don’t be mad!” 

Reaching out, Allen grabbed it. He felt the lingering warmth on the glass. Behind him, the thunder of his father’s voice was growing louder with every passing second. It filled his ears, buzzing like a hurricane of flies as the world spun and swayed. 

“You should have never been born! You ruined our –”

The sound of breaking glass and a heavy thump silenced the living room. Laura whimpered, and Allen stumbled back. He fell to the floor next to his father. They stared at him, lying limp on the ground. For a moment, there was peace – a sudden, undisturbed quiet. 

Laura cried and threw herself into Allen. Her small, stubby arms wrapped around his neck and the wet warmth of snot from her nose smeared against his neck, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–” 

“It’s okay,” Allen hushed her and pulled her close, “I’m right here. I’ll always be here; I won’t ever leave you alone.”

He made it a promise.

***

“I’ll fucking kill you!” 

A hand grabbed his jaw. The fingertips dug into the bruises there, forcing Allen to look at him. Their eyes locked. He tried to hold himself steady, but the hot stub of a cigarette pressed against his cheek. It seared against his skin. A deep, aching pain. 

“I love a good fight; I can’t wait to see you try.” 

A deep, grumbling laugh rattled through his head. Then, the cigarette dropped. Fingers tangled in his sweaty, unwashed hair. 

“You ain’t ever gonna get outta here boy – I could bury your little ass beneath the dirt right now and not a single soul would ever know. Not your father. Not your sister. God himself wouldn’t even know where to start lookin’.” 

The chains rattled loudly as his head collided with the concrete floor. Once. Twice. Again and again, Allen’s head was bashed against the unforgiving ground. His bones cracked, loudly crunching as his nose was broken. Then, the pale blue eyes were meeting his own again. Blood dripped steadily from Allen’s nose. His vision blurred and swarmed. For a moment, he thought he would die. 

A wet tongue ran across his jaw, licking away the blood. 

“But you don’t care, do you? I like that about you. You’ve got a little fight in you. What would your sister say if she could see you like this?”

His heart froze. Three days ago, Allen had promised Laura that he would be back before nine. Through the haze of his spotted vision, he saw the limp corpse of a pink bunny. It lay on the floor surrounded by a pool of blood. Lips pressed against his aching jaw. A mouth clumsily moved across his skin, kissing it with a mocking tenderness. Offering a silent prayer, Allen hoped that this time God would answer. He snapped his head up and bit down, a metallic taste filling his mouth. 

He was going to wash the bunny once he got home.

***

Laura smiled sadly. Her arms tightened around the small, tiny frame and she pulled her daughter close to her chest. Pressing a kiss to her temple, she inhaled the soft smell of lavender and sighed, “He just never came back. I don’t know why he left, but I’m sure that no matter where he is right now, he’d be happy to meet you.”

“Where do you think he went?”

“I don’t know, baby,” Laura sighed as she spoke, but her eyes lingered for a moment on the coffee table beside them. Beneath a pile of TIME Magazines, a newspaper article peaked out. Time had worn away its vibrant colors, but the blink ink on the front remained – legible and clear. The headline was simple: FORTY YEARS LATER, THE TOTAL NUMBER OF VICTIMS REMAIN UNKNOWN.

“I just hope he’s okay – wherever he is.”

Cole Moore is a queer writer from Georgia. He aspires to capture the human experiences and tragedies of existence that have haunted and framed his life.