The Cornfield

The sharp edges of emerald leaves prick at baby soft skin, leaving a rash at my neck that flourishes in rosy bumps. It burns like the body of the little girl that lays in the middle of the field. Dirty finger nails clawing to relieve the sensation only, in the end, make it worse. The stalks are higher than my head now. Ready for their gold to be harvested soon.

Picking. Scratching. Picking. Clawing.

What’s that smell?

It’s the girl in the field.

Don’t play games.

She died playing a game.

Picking. Scratching. Picking. Clawing.

Blisters pop. Fluid oozes over my fingers. There are blisters all over her body. Red and boiling with fury from the afternoon sun. She only got there just this morning. She will be unrecognizable by the time the sun goes down. Or by the time my father’s combine sweeps the fields in a few short days.

Her body will be mangled by its teeth.

It doesn’t really have teeth, you know.

Doesn’t matter. It will destroy her either way.

There is no one out there!

Go look for yourself.

She looks twice as big as the greenery in the field when she stands up. Her size reduces every step closer she gets until she is swallowed by the leaves.

Picking. Scratching. Picking. Clawing.

I tug at the husk of an ear I pulled this morning before I found the little girl. Leaves getting lighter after each layer I peel away. This is what keeps the corn from getting burnt. I wonder if we pulled her out now, would we be able to peel her skin until it’s soft again?

Rustling comes from the field in front of me. An emerald leaf catches her neck. She doesn’t flinch. Just like I didn’t flinch. With every step back her size overcomes the corn once again. A rash is forming at her neck when she sits back down by me.

Picking. Scratching. Picking. Clawing.

She looks like me.

She is you.