Severance

The laughter became more muted, walking past the forest’s edge. It was amazing to see everyone, after so many years apart, Marla thought to herself as she wrapped her shoulders in her shawl. Aunt Judith was spritely as ever, her graying eyes almost translucent, like watery skim milk. Michael, Marla’s brother, had grown wider. Something he blamed on the constant Zoom calls and quick lunches behind his desk. His new daughter—Marla was an aunt now, something so weird and foreign to her—was the centerpiece to the family’s gathering. Various cousins littered the grass, catching one another up. The peal of laughter echoed even here, as Marla walked the thin trail of a path.

Too many people for Marla, at least all at once. Michael had seen the wary glances and pinched mouth Marla showed when her anxiety started to get the best of her. He grabbed her elbow gently, whispered in her ear to go for a walk, regroup. It’s okay, he said. Aunt Judith has center stage. Go! Just like Michael to still look out for her but what were older brothers for anyhow? Marla smiled, her memories of Michael being the benevolent and loving brother that she always needs. Michael was a man Marla was glad to have raise a daughter.

Marla pressed on, the trail thinning out into a small clearing. The treetops had already lost their leaves this far into Fall and weak, hazy light filtered through the silver clouds. She heard a rustling and spun quickly, noting the two chipmunks scurrying up a tree trunk, a mess of leaves in grass where they had been fighting. The piece of food they had been arguing over was pale and pink and, as Marla walked toward it, she found it was a finger, a human finger, severed from the body not two feet from it, largely covered by leaves and moss.

Marla screamed.