Death Blossoms

This story contains implied mental illness, entrapment in physical harm.

         Hank soaked the blood-stained clothes in salt water before tossing them into the washing machine. It's something he observed his wife, Anita, did. She passed away three years ago and he missed her terribly.

         Now, as he transfers the dampened bundle to the dryer, he recalls the day he took her shopping to buy her favorite royal blue dress. It was pricy but he liked to spoil her. Her impressive wardrobe was an ongoing project that she was proud of; each garment meticulously chosen and appropriate for the right occasion. A dedicated investor, she highly valued her excellent fashion sense and polished elegance.

          Eventually, her declining illness began to ravage her body outwardly as she no longer had the energy to perform her own daily grooming routines. She passed away five years ago and still Hank regrets not being more attentive to her priming needs the way he should have during her final months.

         The dryer dings and he extracts each individual garment from the tumbler, folds it with precision and creates a tidy pile. He drops the bundle into a storage bin labeled donate and with a thrust of his hip, the hinged lid thumps closed. He believes in the power of recycling, applauding himself on his exceptional dedication to the humble act.

         It’s late March, and the pear tree he planted after his wife’s passing is also in need of a makeover. It has survived another winter and is going to need a boost of energy for it to redress its naked limbs.

         He saunters through the garage and over to the wheelbarrow full of compost then removes a pair of pruners from the hooks in the drywall. Laying them atop the heap of mulch, he snatches up the shovel that leans against the utility cabinet and lays it next to the cumbersome clippers.

         He hauls the weighty load across the vast field behind his house and parks the trolley near the pear tree. Seizing the steel jawed shears with both hands, he commences with snipping and cutting the barren branches. Trimming any winter damage the wood has sustained will help to protect the sapling’s hardiness and health.

       Satisfied with the cropping, he casts aside the cutting instrument, exchanging it for the shovel. He repeatedly thrusts the blade into the hardened soil around the base of the trunk. With his gloved hands, he scoops the fertilizer and scatters it about. Wrestling to his knees, he spreads the nourishing mixture evenly, blending it with the tilled earth. He grunts as he struggles back onto his feet, brushing his hands together and dusting off his trousers. 

        By mid-April the branches are covered in tiny white flower blooms and the ground below the tree is peppered with ivory confetti. The mild aroma of the silky blossoms’ hovers in the humid air until warm breezes carry the snowdrop petals away, making room for sprouting green buds.

         During the summer months, leathery, green, teardrop shaped leaves replace the poodle façade of the pear tree. Hank again utilizes his pruners and gives the lovely memorial a manicure, trimming away the boughs that are touching each other or growing too close together. He wants to be sure the sunlight reaches every branch, crucial in helping to produce high-quality fruit.

         And as August ends, juicy pears adorn the branches. Hank plucks the sweet fruit, filling a plastic tub, scattering the ground with rations for the local critters before sharing the bounty with his neighbors and friends.

         On November tenth, Hank peers through the bay window at the yellow and scarlet red pear tree. The blazing effect created by its leaves is magnificent. The fiery coiffure, a fitting commemoration to his beloved.

          He swaggers out the front door and crosses the field. The lush green grass has turned a muted gold. As he approaches the pear tree, he recalls his contributions to helping it thrive.  When his eyes fall upon a leaf that has turned yellow and brown, he sighs. Soon they will all change color and drop off, winter is on its way. He is determined, however, to keep the pear tree thriving for many years.         

The following March, Hank sits on the sofa watching the front door, a camera hangs around his neck. He is waiting for Clara, the woman he met at the meet-and-greet. He told her that he was looking for someone to photograph for a business landscaping brochure that he is drafting. She didn't hesitate to accept his offer to be his model, and they set up an appointment.

         The doorbell rings, and Hank counts to ten before opening the door; he doesn't want her to think he is too eager. The two exchange pleasantries. Clara’s long dark hair drapes the lapel of her cherry-red blazer. She points to the small, glass silo next to the barn.

         “What a lovely little greenhouse,” she comments. Flowers ring the inside of the glass structure like cupcakes under the dome of the cake plate. In the center is a handmade, wooden stool. Hank thanks the woman and lets her know that the greenhouse is where he’d be taking the photos.

         They stroll to the little glass house together and Clara steps inside. She is instructed to sit on the stool and get comfortable. As she crosses her legs, the door shuts.  

         The solid crystal dome atop the hollow cylinder slowly begins to descend like a massive paperweight. Clara untangles her legs and rises to her feet. Her brow furrows as she stares at Hank’s expressionless face. The man spins on his heels and saunters back toward the house, Clara’s pleas going unheard, her eyes boring into his back.

         Lunging toward the entrance, Clara’s horrified to find no knobs or hand grips of any kind, only seams outlining the only way in or out. She scrambles back to the stool and clutches it tightly in both hands, then tramples the flowers before slamming it against the curved wall of the transparent edifice. The stool breaks and she realizes that she’s trapped inside a polycarbonate structure; unbreakable glass.

       The roof continues its descent, Clara could feel it brushing the hair on top of her head.  She crouches, her knees buckling and her ankles twisting in her leather boots. Fumbling, somehow managing to remove a shoe, she tries digging a tunnel beneath the flower beds with the two-inch heel. She could see bone fragments mixed throughout purple, blood-tinged soil and a clump of—hair. Disgust and terror consume her. Rolling onto her back, she removes her other shoe and presses her feet flat against the ceiling of the dome. Her knees begin to bend and soon they are curled below her chin. Her spine sinks into the soil until the earth is firm and finally, she begins to pray.  

***

         Two days later, Hank ambles into the laundry room carrying a stack of laundered clothes that he intends to donate. A pair of women’s fashion boots is balanced on top. He places the boots in line with the three pairs of shoes he collected and drops the other garments in a bin. With a thrust of his hip, the hinged lid thumps closed.

          Hank will keep the pear tree thriving, the wheelbarrow in the garage is full of fresh compost to feed the pear tree.

End