It folded in on its self. If you could see below the gelatinous goo that was its body, you'd see the suffering that coursed through it now. One might not realize how much a blob does feel. One might not care to when such dark, depressing emotions take hold of it, as was current with this one.
It tried again, its mass of a head pointed towards the sagging oak. Slowly, as it'd practiced in its mind over and over again, the blob flowed to the stump. Circling the tree, it coated the bark with the blobs own secretions of tainted green. No movement. The tree stood still, silent. The vicious liquid slide down the coat of the tree, seeping into the pores, pooling on the ground. The tree didn't show any sign of enjoyment, no understanding of this special practice of the blob race. As it had done during the blobs previous visits, it remained cold and uncaring towards the sludge's advancements.
The sludge would have wept if it had eyes. It would have thrown its self at the roots of the tree if it believed it would have mattered. But this, this shelled lack of response, proved the tree cared not for it's feelings. The blob had given its self, freely, for the first time, to that tree. A desperate attempt at proving its devotion. A silly thing for such a young glob to do, but one known to occur when young feelings of desire arise.
The ooze nearly deflated. Quivering, it spread its self on the ground. If a traveler came upon it, it wouldn't have cared. It wouldn't try to consume him for sustenance. It wouldn't put up a fight if that person wanted to strike the final blow. It felt dead anyways. Used. Unwanted.
Never had the oak given. Never had it appreciated what the blob had sacrificed in order to keep the tree from being fouled by others. The countless animals the blob had struggled with that would have torn the tree down. Did it even matter to the tree? Did it care that its life had been full of such love with little expectation of return? The blob doubted it. It doubted everything in this existence. It was alone.
Day turned to night. Night into day. There the ooze laid. Questioning, pleading, the dead gaze always turned towards the oak. A sign was all it wanted. Proof that not all was lost. That it hadn't been beating its head along a wall of thick hide. The tree just stood. The tree didn't respond. And the goo waited. It could wait an eternity for one movement of caring towards the blob. If only the tree would talk to the blob as it did with the rare winds. If only it'd allow the blob to reside in its boughs as it did with the occasional critter. If only it'd excrete its own sticky concoction. These thoughts consumed the puddle of green. Just one drop, just one movement, one bubble, one anything.
The devotion was never shown. The oak never gave. The blob waited. Choosing to waste its life on a lost cause, one that it could never see as such. How could the tree lack compassion when all the blob had done is wanted to spend its life with the tree. It tricked its self into believing its love would come eventually. This was the last lie it told its self before the green haze clouded its vision, finally putting the ooze out of its deluded misery.
And there the tree stood. And the wind did blow from time to time, whispering through the oaks leaves. And the small critters did take up residence for a time in the branches. And the tree did bleed its own amber liquid. But it was never meant for the blob. It never would have been meant for the blob.
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