Dead wood feels no pain.

A lie. Each scrape of the coarse sandpaper, every nail hammered in, is enough to make the wood shriek. The scraping of a lathe that removes fine traces of skin goes beyond pain. For the tiny slithers that are taken fall in anguished curls, writhing at the separation from their parent. Ignored.

The wood remembers. Its branches were once filled with joyous song, feathered ruffles of activity, shrill awakenings of new life nestled in shallow bowls of wood, twig and moss. Greenery sprouted, rustled in the wind, withered, fluttered down to earth to be renewed, drawn into the soil. Roots spread, drinking in the moisture, the dank earthiness of rotting compost, fungal spores, mould. Minute creatures burrowed, scuttled, dwelt in every piece, from root to bark to leaf. Their life not always welcome as they munched holes in finery, drilled into the wood, killed the blossoms of spring.

But that was bearable. This, this constant gnawing of every muscle, tendon, nerve was something nothing should be forced to endure. Enforced agonies. Sharp pins piercing and renewing old memories daily, hourly, minutely.

No peace.

And the wood screams.