I really hate taking a bath. The walls groan as they strain to break free from their confinement and plunge their thirsty tubers into my soapy water. I sooth my damp palms across parched flaky grain, uncomfortably mesmerised. It’s almost watering time.
We were among the first to move into Hambledown. An entire estate crafted from genetically engineered timber. The unique output of a ground-breaking programme that grafted stem cells to saplings in an attempt to reduce the cost of wood production by tripling the rate of tree growth. When scientists observed infinitesimal signs of sentience, the whole forest was swiftly razed to the ground. What better way to hide that costly calamity than in plain sight?
It was only over time that the residents here began to realise our mistake. But by then we were tethered. We assume that the research team were unaware that their modifications had enhanced the telekinetic ability of the trees. Or that incredible regenerative powers meant that even varnished timber could re-root successfully.
I spend my days tending to the many needs of my home. My nights are filled with autumn leaves scudding on the breeze, dank velveteen soil and the caress of worms as they wrap seductively around my limbs. Occasionally I squint through the grooves on my decking to watch the roots beneath playfully squirming and stretching. In a few years the whole suburb will be ready to move on.