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Fall was a complicated season. Sweltering summer days were tampered, slowly but surely, by the night’s chill. The cold crept towards the day, transforming into brisk mornings and cool nights. Warmth followed the sun and dissipated in its absence. Mild afternoons turned all too quickly to frigid evenings, times when the wind blew right through you, like it was its mission to freeze your very bones. Nights outside meant a shivering chill with the possibility of a cold the next morning.
Opportunities to hide away were whittled down by portents of winter.
With fall came school. Aaron liked school. Books and homework kept his inquisitive mind busy. The judgmental stares and hushed whispers behind his back in school hallways were preferable to drunken raves and the constant threat of violence in the hallways of his house.
Lately, he noticed how the town gossip aligned more and more with his father’s insults. “Scrawny,” “hollow,” “queer,” “lifeless,” “worthless,” “nothing but trouble,” “wild-eyed,” “better off dead.” He could shrug it off easily enough. They weren’t saying anything new: these were truths he’d learned about himself at an early age. That pain was a distant memory. He had more to worry about.
He didn’t really resent anyone for saying it, but it was encouragement to fulfill their expectations. Not all the bruises came from home anymore: he got into plenty of fights on his own. He even started winning some of them. There was a little pride in being able to deal as much as he was dealt, but having a reputation for violence meant injuries went unquestioned. When asked, he’d say he broke his wrist in a fight. It’s also how he got his black eyes, his broken nose, his dislocated shoulder, shattered ribs. He was a reckless kid. It comes with the territory. Makes a better excuse than falling down the stairs every other week. One can only be so clumsy, but no one thinks twice about a belligerent teenager.
Fall was complicated. With school came its own set of problems, but at least school was safe. The most savage beating from a group of high schoolers paled in comparison to what waited at home. No, no. School was safe.
During the weekends or the few hours of sunlight after school, Aaron liked to walk around the woods. “Exploring” or “adventuring” were fantasies left behind in childhood—or where his childhood should’ve been. He was old enough now to accept these woodland wanderings for what they were: a means of escape.
Illusions aside, he still enjoyed walking through the trees. There was a limit to the amount of nights he could stay out in the cold, and he grieved for the passing summer nights of warmth and fireflies. But there was a special beauty in fall that bred colors without parallel. Bright yellows and deep maroons could be found littering the forest floor, ornamenting the weakening trees, and sometimes exploding in the sky of a setting sun. The vibrant array of color came with its own kind of warmth. Maybe not as effective as high temperatures or heat waves, but it stirred his heart nonetheless. A senseless, fading beauty in the looming shadow of winter.
Maybe the bounty the trees had to offer in fall was meaningless in the face of death, but there was something about the futile declarations of life that Aaron identified with. Screaming against fate, “I’ve survived this long!”
So Aaron enjoyed his days outside, kicking up scattered leaves and admiring the trees, pretending he wasn’t counting the days until the dreaded snow arrived. Instead he tucked away a particularly striking shade of orange into one of his books and dared to hope he’d survive the upcoming season.
He realized long ago that it wasn’t a guarantee.