He didn't mind a forest stroll, but it would have been tiers better if a kid with anger issues hadn't sliced him up beforehand. All things considered, it was a pretty tense situation for Avery leading up to that.
Why would DeMain be so mad? It wasn't like his mom was special, she clearly wasn't a witch based on Avery's interactions with her. Of all things, DeMain cared that Avery was trying to give him some more freedom from his parent—something the usual teenager would be giddy as a girl over. Avery didn't understand, and he wasn't really sure if it was worth trying to. DeMain was clearly new to… everything. The existence a witch was doomed to lead, one of endless disappointments and measurable consequences. Avery was certain Ethel was cozying up to DeMain more anyhow, what with how many times she'd taken his side in their usual conflicts.
It all bothered him, but he just wasn't in the mood to bother with it in return. With a wave of his proverbial hand the ounce of care was gone, and Avery returned to the usual melancholy feeling of mental grayness. It wasn't enough to quell his ceaseless mind, but at least it extinguished the fire of worries that flared with them.
…And of all things, DeMain gets to commune with a New Witch God on his Awakening. Avery couldn't speak, his own Awakening had been hell on earth and he didn't wish it upon anyone, even in the nightmares he gave people. The gnawing of envy was stronger than the gnawing of hunger in Avery's gut from walking for so long. DeMain treated him like he was some spoiled richie from the upstate hills or something, when DeMain had everything he never had. Loving family, a mother willing to toss away her own shame for her son, (supposedly) a hardworking father figure, and so on and so forth endlessly.
Avery's mind stung as he pictured his mist freezing and sharpening into cruel spears, piercing DeMain over and over until he understood what Avery had lived through. As soon as they had formed his own shame melted them away. Why bother trying to be something he wasn't? Avery knew he was set to be a pathetic, wriggling creature under the rocks of the rest of humanity. DeMain had gotten lucky, being able to choose his own fate and receiving an ability which would grant him a degree of control over his own life no matter what happened. Avery's seeds of doubt and control took weeks to sew for results, DeMain could just stab them right then and there. He supposed a gun wouldn't be a half-bad idea in the future. Something small, easy to conceal if he needed to use it.
The train tracks Avery had been following loosely along the line of the forest had curved back and forth so many times he'd lost count. Luckily it was one path, but it was as if he were following a great serpent that had carved its path through sandy dunes. Avery wasn't really sure if the areas around the train's pathways were dangerous, but he felt so murky, dried, and horrible inside he would welcome another violent buck in rut season.
His shoes eventually found themselves matching pace with the old wooden boards of the train tracks, now standing in the dead center as he tempted fate that the train would not return so soon. Anger welled in Avery's heart so suddenly and so fiercely that he couldn't hold back the roar of anguish that overtook him. Compelled by drastic desire, he outstretched his hand as if to perform some epic feat only to be met with… nothing.
Why? What was so drastically different between him and some irritable kid that he wasn't worth any ability to defend himself? Ethel's abilities as a medium weren't exactly threatening, but being able to summon a spirit to assist you whenever you needed was arguably more effective than the long game that was Avery's skill set. He could put people to sleep and gradually manipulate them, yes, but that was sorely ineffective when it really mattered. Avery doubted that he could even kill someone physically even if he had put them to sleep. He was skin and bones with a pretty enough face that it made him a target. Long, silky, sort of greasy hair that attracted all the wrong people, and yet he couldn't bring himself to get rid of it because he looked so ugly and unrecognizable without it.
Again the turbulence of his emotions shifted, and Avery was suddenly able to take a deep breath and let it all go as he stepped to the side of the train tracks once more. Perhaps his heart had been rendered rotten and numb, but it certainly helped. Why weren't other people like this? The world would be so much better if people knew how to breathe and leave everything behind.
The path through the woods morphed into that of an old stretch of abandoned farmland, with wheat overgrown into withered stalks good only for depositing more seeds. The field was dominated by an eerie sense of loss that permeated through the dilapidated farmhouse, accentuated by the age-old willow tree which seemed to stand on its last legs. Avery noticed the gray clouds of the sky and the falling sun, deciding that even some roofing was better than none during a storm. It wasn't like he was in a rush, he could deal with the hunger that would come later.
Behind the farmhouse was a small shack which had once belonged to an old man and his wife, evidented by the grave out front that marked her name.
'Mrs. Yellowbush'
'A kind soul, even when all the world be cruel'
High praise coming from your husband. Avery spied the dates of the headstone and realized the grave had been marked this way about 5 years ago. Knowing the frailty of old men in their last legs of life, Avery wondered if the farm owner was even still alive. Regardless, his fist found the door out of concern for making a bad first impression. What he hadn't expected was the fringed voice from inside welcoming him.
"Come in! The latch don't work no more. No use locking, save for naive salesmen."
Avery cocked his head and opened the door, practically needing to shove it open from the undersized frame and the rustiness of the hinges.
"Shut it behind ya, please. The 'squitos aren't too kind this time of year."
Avery could have sworn the man was dead, his skin clung so tightly to his withered frame. Sunken eyes, a white beard as wispy as chimney smoke, and liver spots splattered across the bald spots of his body. He was laying in bed, surrounded by old cans of beans and stew with copious beer bottles and cans stacked horrendously on the table next to him. A small box television was displaying old western shows that had probably been rerun thousands of times. Avery was about to explain himself, but the man merely held his finger up and looked around as if waiting for something. Then he sneezed, quite loudly. Avery tried to jump the gap as he snorted, but the man spoke before he could.
"Lemme guess. Walking the tracks? Yeah, I getcher kind around here sometimes. Most people take the train, but you ain't most people are ya?"
He spoke with a knowing glean to his eye, Avery was surprised they could still move with how aged and unhealthy they looked. He could only nod in response, his hands going to his pockets.
"Ye can stay in the barn or on the couch. I wun't do nuffin I swear it, can't even get outta bed without poppin' ma back anymore."
It was hard not to believe the decrepit man. He seemed so sad at first glance, but Avery knew that he didn't care what happened to him anymore. The man was so old, and he'd lived through so much. Life just didn't play the same tunes it used to, and the half-smile he gave at the jokes that played from the TV told Avery he had been waiting for death for a long time.
"I'm uh… not planning to stay. It's about to storm I think, but I don't want to get lost in the rain." Avery said, standing awkwardly in the half-vacant home.
"Ya like beans?"
"What? I mean, I guess, yeah."
"There's a bunch in the cupboard there. Grab the opener from the drawer 'neath it. Take as much as you like."
Indeed the cans and the can opener were where the old man said, but Avery didn't feel like eating more than a can of baked beans at most. He sat on a spare chair that'd been torn up from years of use, a layer of dust accumulated over it so thick he thought it'd just been a different color beforehand. The old man shot over to Avery with a mild expression of distaste as he started eating in the chair, but it was immediately replaced with a wry frown and then nothingness.
They sat in the cabin together until the storm rolled in, the winds howling outside. Eventually, a boom of thunder came and the lights in the cabin went black as the TV flickered dead, trapping them both in the dark. The older man didn't seem phased, merely rolling over and announcing his new plan of action with some snoring shortly after. Avery couldn't sleep as peacefully, using the flashlight of his phone filtered through his hand to sneakily grab some cans for the road.
His pockets filled with contingencies, Avery stood over the sleeping senior, gently outstretching his hands in a way he'd done to the dreaming countless times before. It was the least he could do for the old man to repay him for his welcoming kindness, a good dream to stay the night. A cold grasp wrapped around Avery's wrist, holding much more tightly than he expected out of a weakened body.
"Don't you go interruptin' my dreams now, Sandman. Don't gimme a lie like you always do."
The hand fell limp shortly after, with Avery's own hand doing the very same. He traipsed over to the couch, careful not to trip over any of the bottles that'd rolled onto the floor.
Avery's suspicions were confirmed when he was awoken by the horrible stench of voided bowels, the man having passed in his sleep by natural causes. At least, as natural as a diet of booze and beans could get you. Avery's heart sank a little, but it wasn't the smell that drove him from the home and into the rain outside. The farm was bleak and black, with the rows of wheat appearing more as the walls of a cage and the eyes of crows like flocking onlookers from the outside. The path out of the farm was obscured in the night, no stars to guide him were left from the cover of the stygian clouds above.
He perched himself against the ancient willow tree, its leaves like an embrace of a thousand fingers. As horrifying as they appeared, it covered him from the rain and the storm. Avery could've gone to the barn, but he couldn't remember where it was in the impenetrable malaise. The wind whipped and the fingers of the willow tree suddenly clutched Avery tightly, if only for a moment. He could see now the roots had become broken, twisted legs and arms with hollow skin, the limbs of the tree littered with dead crows tangled in their dead leaves. He knew this presence, but it only needed to show itself for a passing second for the grating voice to enter his mind.
"Stay the course."
It was lulling, reminiscent of Avery's own witch abilities when used on others. He couldn't help it, he was truly exhausted from both the stinging of the half-healed wound and the wreck of a day he'd had. His head slumped against the base of the tree's trunk, his wet hair sticking to the rough bark as it crawled with ants and mites. No dreams came to greet him, neither to punish him with harsh truths nor to bless him with lies.
Morning came slowly, held back by the mist that hung low to the ground. It seemed over the course of his rest that the mites and the flies who were accustomed to the cold of night much preferred a warm body to sleep with. Avery shook his hair clean of its new infestation, picking at the tangled nest of his head before he could feel crawling legs no longer. His first thought was one that he felt came naturally, it was the only thing he could do to repay the man now.
A shovel wasn't hard to find, the man's barn had little to offer besides a spade and some defunct farming equipment. No tractor to cut his travel time in half, unfortunately. A hole was dug rather unceremoniously, Avery had nothing to compare six inches to on hand, so he went until the shovel could strike no deeper at the bedded soil and deeprock. The old man was laid to rest in the outfit he died in, covered in stains of booze, beans, and his own voided contents. It was the best Avery could really do, crossing the man's hands over his chest before the pile of dirt was reinserted into the ground on top of him.
The grave of Mr. Yellowbush had been planted next to that of his wife's burial spot, though Avery had no headstone to mark it with. He took some stones and laid them in a stack, a board with a long screw through it shoved in as the display. A rusty hammer and screwdriver were used as chiseling tools, and he struck words in what he could on the surface of the rotten wood.
'Mr. Yellowbush'
'No friend to liars.'
No, that didn't really seem right. Avery flipped the board over and began to chisel in a new phrase.
'Mr. Yellowbush'
'Good beer, good beans, good booze'
He tossed the rotten plank away into the wheat fields, hearing it crack immediately as it landed. Why was he trying to immortalize an old man he'd known for two hours at best? Furthermore, it wasn't Avery's place to sum up his life in his last living moments alone. He needed to write… something. It felt disingenuine to just ignore the man after the small kindness he'd shown to some random kid he never cared to learn the name of.
Avery found another, fresher lacquered wood piece and began his chiseling once more, taking extra attention to time and detail as to not screw it up.
'Mr. Yellowbush'
'Don't give me a lie. Sandman.'
Avery returned to the old man's shack after a small moment of silence was given, mostly because he didn't think he had the right to say anything about the deceased. He would leave some food in here just in case any other Veil travelers came along, not that he felt like carrying an extra 40lbs of canned food with him the entire trip anyhow.
Avery went through the drawers of the shack, careful to ignore any that had personal things like documents or tax files. Even the dead deserved to keep their affairs quiet. One drawer was locked, although Avery could guess why by the key with a plastic toy gun linked to it by a chain piece. The drawer was undone with the hardy click of untouched machinery, revealing a velvet-covered inside with an empty snubnose six-shooter revolver and five bullets of its caliber already inserted. He pocketed the gun, remembering the pace of his heart when the rutting stag found him and DeMain in the forest. Just in case…
Avery closed the door to the shack for perhaps its last time, failing to notice the months-old mold on the opened bean cans and the chewed-through wires of the TV.