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M. on the evening of May 27, 2014, the day following his 18th birthday, and one shy of my 32nd. Our shared birthday present, as I've often thought.It's 9:41 p.m. I took an hour away from typing that bit about the birthday present.I became unglued, even as his sperm flooded my insides. I was in bed with my son, my underwear on the floor beside us, the rest of my clothing downstairs on the living room floor. A half-empty bottle of Chardonnay on the bedside table alongside two empty glasses; an empty bottle on the coffee table downstairs, the remains of the four joints we'd smoked, the strip monopoly game where I'd removed everything but my panties in front on my son."Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus," he cried repeatedly as my body rebelled, as my mind started to shut down. Not pushing him away, but withdrawing into itself like a flipped tortoise into its shell. My arms released first, folding alongside my ribcage, hands tucking into my armpits defensively. Then my legs came. The naked branches of the trees reached upwards like grasping fingers, rising from the obscuring mist that hung over them, the light of the waxing moon providing just enough light to see by. The sky above was clear of clouds, velvet black, the cold stars twinkling in the heavens.The figure stopped at a tree, placing a gloved hand on the trunk and drawing a penknife from the pocket of his jacket. He stabbed it deep into the bark, carving a symbol into the wood, large and prominent. It was a pattern of crossed lines and small circles, a demonic sigil. When he was finished, he moved on to another tree. It was hard going, his breath condensating in the cold air as it left his lips, his features obscured beneath the shadow of his cowl.Over the course of an hour, he had carved them into dozens of trees, maybe a hundred. The same symbol appeared everywhere, only varying in its size. When he reached a clearing in the dense woodland, he pulled a rucksack from his back, kneeling to rummage.
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