Those hot summer nights.

I pity you, if you happen to endure it in bed, with only a fan blowing warm air to cool you down. I’ve always been a bit craftier than that. Even as a baby, they say I could’ve made it past any baby gate, out of any crib. I find a solution to every problem. If there’s no solution, then my own personal philosophy is to make the situation bearable. It’s the next best thing in my book.

So on nights like this, when my pores simply ache from sweating, and I’m longing to make use of my miserable time… I sneak out. What can I say? It’s summer; a time for mystery and histories to be made. A time for broken rules, outlawed behavior. Summertime just strikes a chord with us small town, USA kids. It’s a time to do things they’ll never even think of doing, and feeling no shame. The only regrets we’ll ever feel are those of having to stop at a certain point, every time. Because, after all; we’re still “young”.

In any case, I try my hardest, age be damned.

This is the way it generally seems to play out:

I roll easily out of my red sheets, and slip into street clothes, already hidden beneath the bed. Converse high tops would be my shoe choice for any other occasion, but the laces take too much time to tie. I quickly jump into running shoes and throw open the window.

The next part actually changes quite frequently. More often than naught, someone greets me below my window. All my friends know I get into shenanigans at night, especially when the weather (or perhaps my own thoughts) starts getting to me. I’m often found by a companion who’s also facing rough times, or the “weather”. I could sit with my buddies for hours out there, discussing life.

Tonight I search all around, but it appears I’ll be going on my own adventures. I stick my feet out the window blindly, looking for the ladder-type growth on the side of my house. I find it quickly and drop gracefully to the ground below. I’ve mastered these moves by now.

I glance around one last time, and decide to go out on my own.

I live kind of in the woods, but not really. There’s a main road a few hundred feet from our driveway and through the trees. It connects all the little towns around our valley. I start on my usual root, down our driveway that crosses the train tracks and out toward the road. However, I quickly decide tonight calls for something different.

I make a ninety degree right turn into the woods and keep walking, not missing a beat. I love when people tell “scary” stories that revolve around haunted forests and dark trails. I think they’re hilarious. I could walk for hours here with no light. These trees are my saviors.

It’s not pitch-black, anyway. There’s a light in our driveway that’s basically at work full-time. It reactivates every time something crosses its path. Squirrels, deer, even bats. The light shines bright enough for me to make sense of my trail. I shuffled it through a few summers ago, with nothing but my own shoes dragging for a couple hours. At the time, I wondered why I even bothered. I thought it was silly and pointless, and a complete waste of time. Now, I’m forever grateful for this escape route.

I look for different signs I’ve created over the years, showing me how far away or close I am to different things. Tonight I’m looking for my favorite spot; this huge Oak tree with a giant hole in the trunk, the kind you would expect an owl to be nesting in. Since I found this tree, I’ve never seen anything live in it, lucky for me.

I take out a flash light – it’s getting dark out here – and a notebook. It takes some digging around, but I find my pencils. Brilliant Blue, Royal Purple – all the stereotypical colors of a crayon box. I love my pencils, though.

I climb to the highest branch I can manage, and let an even higher branch cradle my flashlight. It shines directly on the open page, so I start drawing.

I suspect not many people know I have this talent. I never talk about it, or show it off. The only time I really do it at all is up here in my tree, where no one could ever see. The art isn’t meant for anyone’s eyes, anyway. I don’t even look at it when I’m done. There’s a river nearby that destroys all my evidence. I wouldn’t want to subject anyone to the monstrous things I create. If my mind grows dark, I draw. If there’s too much for me to take, I draw. It the world caves in around me, I draw. Tonight, my color is blue, and I work my thoughts out from there.

Slowly a world unfolds on my paper. It’s an ocean, a deep blue wasteland. At first I wonder why I haven’t drawn any fish, but I know well enough to wait. I lace some green into the image, showing this is the east coast. I draw two circles and realize these are eyes. The world is always easier to look at through different eyes. The fish begin to appear, but they aren’t swimming. They are rising, one by one, to the surface, ever so slowly. They turn on their sides and start the journey up.

These fish are dead.

I fumble the notebook around in my hands out of surprise – and almost fear – until it lands with a loud THUD at the bottom of the old Oak. I glance around in the darkness and hear the nightlife of the woods stirring about. The trees don’t feel so protective anymore.

I scramble to the bottom and out of the tree, and quickly shove my belongings into their place. I sprint for the river, but the sounds in the trees catch up to me. I feel instantly horrified, a feeling I’d never have imagined here in my safe haven. I turn on my heel and head back to my house, my room, and the safety of my own bed. It’s all I can think about. Home. Home. There’s no place like home.

I should be there by now. The light should be guiding my way. I should see it illuminating these dark shadows that seem to be chasing me.

Should, but don’t.

Where is my tree? My path? Why did I leave my flashlight behind? Where am I?

I sink down into the earth. Leaves are still piled up from last year’s autumn. It makes me wonder, do leaves ever really die? I dig my hands around in the dirt, looking for something, anything. My fingers run over grass and moss and leaves and mud. There is nothing that will help me.

I let the tears fall, because I cannot think of anything else to help me. Where am I? I’m nowhere. Lost in the great, vast woods. Something isn’t right here, because by now I should have seen my house, or the neighbor’s house, or something. I see nothing at all.

Where am I?

I stand and wipe my eyes, probably smearing my face with dirt. I don’t care. I’m lost in something horrible.

I open my other palm and find the picture of the dying fish. I’m still grasping it, even after the craziness of the last few minutes. I stare at it for a long time. In the darkness, I can still make out the bright red spots. I tear the picture to pieces, but now it’s too late. I’m drowning in a sea of fear, wondering if these dead fish will come find me and calmly pull me under. I collapse into the dirt again, into the fetal position, hands clamped over my ears. Where am I?

I wonder momentarily if I’ve gone insane. I push this thought away, though. I’m too normal to be insane. I try to think more rational thoughts. Maybe someone is searching for me! Maybe they’ll take me home!

“Help!” I yell at the top of my lungs, over and over. “Help me! Someone! Help!”

Silence. I’m on my own.

Where am I?

I take a deep breath, and then a good look around. Everything is pitch-black here, unlike the woods around my nice, warm, safe home. Home. I miss it dearly. No matter how many things I said about it, how badly I wanted to get out, it was still my true safe haven. Not these ugly, scary trees.

I’m so wrapped up in my own thoughts that it takes me completely by surprise. Pure white lights, illuminating everything in my sight too brightly, are stinging my eyes. I turn away, and think I see another light come on, but maybe I’ve just gone blind.

“WHERE. AM. I?!”

I’m screaming into nothing. Or maybe everything. My eyes burn, hands shake, head throbs. I don’t know what I think.

“Help,” I say weakly.

“Lorraine.” The voice isn’t angry or demanding, but so loud and echoing that I jump to my feet. It’s not the sound of the voice that scares me to the bone though. It’s what they said. Lorraine.

Most people don’t realize I’m adopted. It’s too long and complicated to explain. The only thing I know is that my birth mother wrote Lorraine on my birth certificate. When my parents saved me from her, they changed my name to Laura. I’m perfectly fine with that, because Lorraine just reminds me of someone who never wanted me.

But now someone’s saying it to me in the middle of a bleach-white forest.

“What is happening to me?” I barely whisper.

“Lorraine.” A little louder, maybe impatient, but still not angry. Tears start streaming down my cheeks, and I explode into the sky. “What?!” I scream. “Who are you? What do you want from me?” Now there is silence behind the white curtain. “What do you want?”

Nothing.

I look with pleading eyes, all around. No one is here. I am alone. I am lost and alone.

I want to go home.

“You can’t go home, Lorraine.” I pop my head up and decipher that I must have spoken out loud. At least, it’s the only theory on how they heard me that I can handle right now. I steady my voice and ask, “Why not?”

Their next words leave me speechless.

“Lorraine, you died tonight.”