A boy of ground, the land enveloping him held him as if he were nature’s own child. Earth itself kept him warm when the days tended to bite chillingly and cool when the days licked with heat. His face-like appearance never burrowed under the dirt, for he wanted to see the world with his own organic eyes. Every bird, mouse, or fox passing by would be seen by the still, waiting mandrake. Though he harbored a face, it felt as though he was forgotten as a boy, hidden behind the leaves of his own head, only seen as a simple, small plant.

Creatures would steal the ripe fruit productions that grew with the boy’s foliage, running away with mouths tainted by bright colors. As his produce was taken, time after time, harming the feeling of happiness in the boy’s world, the mandrake wanted nothing more to make it end. They always took, never giving, always leaving, never staying.

With a few days progress, the berries were a color of warning, a color meant to ward off. Although, as bright as they were, it seemed to only attract more of the curious hiders, hypnotized by the thought of food. But little did the forest know, the small snack was one that wasn’t lengthily savored. A bite to the fruit was a sure way to sign the contract none wanted to glance. A contract that speeds the inevitable, the loss of one’s beating heart.

The mandrake knew the only way to stop their blind greed was to stop them forever, maybe then their eyes would clear to see the boy’s face before clouding as life was drained. A rooted boy, once thought as a sweet treat, was now nightshade in disguise, desperate for anyone’s gaze. Desperate for a present body.

As the days kept turning, contract after contract was signed as the creatures of the wood, were mesmerized by the berries that seemed to pulsate and change color. One after other, they squished the treat with their tongues and their world went dark. Bodies piled around the boy’s resting place, creating a barrier in front of the mandrake’s eyes. The boy got his wish, creatures were staying and listening to him speak softly out of his carved face. They listened to his stories that were full of pain and hope, a blank understanding expression plastered on all their faces.

Vultures and any filthy scavenger landed before the blocked eyes of the boy, only their talons glinting at him as the ripped apart what was left of the unfortunate critters. As they flew to the sailing, soaring sky, bellies full of poisoned meat, the maggots soon came. Squirming and dancing through fur and feather to reach the depths of skin. The mandrake was proud of the friends he’d gathered, for they were staying, seeing his face through empty eyes, both dead and alive. The decomposers made their work on the boy’s friends, thriving and flying as flies and beetles in the coming days.

As the skin dissipated and the tufts of pelts were left, the nightshade realized that they were leaving him again. Even the maggots had changed their opinions and left to disperse and search for unwanted bodies. Now with the stench of rot enveloping him, the forest knew to be wary, that the boy was a source of death. That the knotted roots of the boy’s face were hiding some deeper, even if the intention was one of welcoming.  

Sorrow began to fill the plant as he realized that what was living had no place to be around him, only the dead were welcome at his doorstep. A myth and tale of terror erupted around the forest, speaking in whispers, daring not to let it hear them. The story of a pure root turned to deadly nightshade was spread to critters minds, making the bug in their system paranoid. The entirety of the forest knew never to trust a plant, for hiding beneath the foliage could be that inevitable contract. It held no mercy, it was no longer human.

Many paid heed to this warning, except for a boy, one of flesh. A tale to him was one of wonder, never one of distrust or grime result. In the corner of his backyard stood the buried nightshade all had heard of. Once the shivering stories made their way to the two-legged boy, he began to explore the interests of the plant.

Knowing not to touch the vibrant berries the mandrake carried, the boy sat by the base of that plant, examining it quietly. Every afternoon he visited the plant, speaking to it the stories he had heard on its endeavors. He told it the rumors that claimed his name, what the forest knew and thought about him.

The nightshade listened, intent and eager on a new friend. His sorrow stayed the same, however, though having a sort of friend, the whole forest was against him. He was just a deathtrap to all of them, something to steer clear of, something out of all their nightmares.

But as the visits became more frequent, the anger against him dissipated and the human boy began to share wonders of his own. Stories of battling pirates among ships, miners encountering their fears in caves, terrifying creatures hanging from famous skyscrapers, and any adventure filled the mind of the mandrake, all told by his companion. Distractions of mischief began as the wonder came to life, the boy acting out each journey with small acts just for the mandrake. Foam swords, faux treasures, and elaborate costumes came out to play as it all unfolding before the eyes of the plant, bringing a gifted experience to it.  It was all for him, the boy of ground.

Just as the mandrake believed his humanity was just seeping back in, the inevitable began to occur.

As the boy of flesh grew weary after each demonstration, his hunger grew for something to eat. Folks at home were often gone, leaving him behind without much knowledge on how to keep himself running. Food was out of reach, for it was all eaten in a few days time. The inevitable began to grow in like the stench of rot.

One day, instead of performing like he always did, the boy sat with a look of defeat in front of the nightshade. His eyes full of tears and cheeks hollowed from lack of food, he struggled to point at the berries atop the plant’s head. He spoke what never wanted to be heard.

“Just one?”

With no possible response, he reached and plucked one of the vibrant little fruits of its’ stem. In the mind of the mandrake, the yowling of agony echoed, in hope of staying merciful for just a little longer. No word in any language could be heard in the ears of the boy, nothing could prevent the dipped ink pen against paper. Mercy was now merciless.

The contract was signed