Anthony Cain

My grass is trying to kill me.

My lawn. My perfectly maintained, perfectly green, beautiful reminder of my status. Given the ideal amount of water for optimal turf health and cut daily at 7 a.m. and 6 p.m. to maintain its flawless, two-and-a-half-inch height. The green is perfect. The perfect blend of the deep, mating darkness and bright, envious illumination that make up the essence of this beautiful color.

It wants me dead.

Yesterday, I peered out my window to see one of my gardeners staring down at my immaculate lawn. His eyes appeared intensely passionate before he began to tear off his clothes and roll on the grass. Joyous tears rolled down his face as he returned to his hands and knees, staring into the immaculate green.

Before I could call the authorities, the noises began. Moist crunching filled my ears as the man’s arms and legs began to be mauled by what appeared to be the grass itself. Where I expected to hear the wailings of pain, loud moans of what I could only call intense pleasure met me.

It took over a minute for the noises to cease. All that remained of him was a chunky red spot in the grass.

This morning, I found more of these red spots on the sod. Eighteen of them. Three more than my gardening squad. The lawn has now grown over the sidewalk, intruding on my walkway.

I could hear it calling in the night. It is silent in the day, but I can see it. The green beckons me to discover what it is that has called so many to their demise.

Was it their demise?

I can’t stop wondering. Like a splinter in my brain.

They weren’t screaming, after all. What if it was saving them? Maybe it’s an escape from this shell of a life? This lace veil of an existence holding us back from something more, something eternal.

If I look at night, the green won’t call to me. Maybe I can catch a glimpse of what’s down there.

Just one look.

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