Frost Tulips

As the golden sun slipped below the horizon, its rays shot beams of light on the bloody wooden floors. Except there was no blood now, and Molly knew it, she always knew it, but why she still lived there, lived at that house, she didn’t know. Her mother was still dead. She could still hear the snow crunching as she carried her body to the river bank. Could still hear the birds chirping as she placed wildflowers on her still chest. Was there anything substantial after all in that hollow cage? Her mother was no superhuman. So how else could she carry her? Out the door and to the river?

But here, she stood in the quiet stillness of her kitchen. Stagnant, unreleased energy, just hovering around the atmosphere like a wraith. All the things that could have been, and should have been, but would never be. Did the unfulfilled dreams stay longer than the fresh new budding ones?

Molly had seen enough flowers break through solid concrete to know that life could always find a way through hard circumstances. As the birds reminded her, just because one life was ended didn’t mean all life was over.

The familiar comforting click of the heater interrupted Molly’s reverie. Her teacup clinked as she set it down on glossy blue counter tiles. Her favorite thing in the world was the feeling of warmth in the cold. The liquid didn’t just warm her hands, but went all the way down to her soul this day.

The first accident left a small thin line of a bruise. On each shin. Molly remembered her mother so cheerily informing her that it was an honest mistake, that she had meant to move the stool out of the way, but she hadn’t. That was the thing. And she hadn’t cared about the bruising either, or the way Molly’s shins throbbed still. Because the injury was small and insignificant, and anything small and insignificant to her wasn’t a big deal. To Molly either. Steam curled its way up above Molly’s face, highlighted by the sun fading in a glorious display outside the window.

Molly wasn’t sure what she had been trying to prove all those years. Her body grew, but that seemed to be the only thing. She still never proved anything. Her mind was still the same. The wind whistled outside and shook the naked winter branches. Everything was alright, though. When night had finally fallen, Molly was already ready. She heard the quiet snapping of twigs outside, and then a gentle thud and scratching at the old cabin door. She knew it was the fox even before she was him. She didn’t have to leave food out. He always showed up on nights like these.

When she opened the door, she noticed the snow had started falling softly in white specks around the barren forest. The entire forest was cloaked all in white, with no green, it was truly otherworldly.

“You look like a lumberjack.” Molly observed when she opened the door to the fox. And he did. He was decked out in a coal gray flannel shirt with yellow stripes. Underneath, a lighter gray wife beater peaked out from his chest . His auburn hair was covered by a mustard yellow beanie that stopped right above his expressive brown eyes. They regarded her warmly.

“Oh.” he answered a bit uncertainly. “Well, it is snowing outside today.” He said.

“Yeah. I noticed.” Molly said, and she couldn’t help but smile a little. She didn’t know if she was glad to see him or not, but it was still nice in a way that didn’t make sense to her. “Maybe you shouldn’t be here.” She said sadly after a moment.

“Well I came now,” He said without a moment's hesitation. Then he took a small step forward, “So let me in.”

“I don’t want to.” She repeated, “But I can tell you what happened right here.” The cold air was starting to drift in, and she didn’t want to leave the door open any longer, but she was unsure what to do with the fox before her. So they both stood there in a brief silence, looking at each other. The fox didn’t seem to want to stand there and listen, and he didn’t reply. In the end, she wasn’t left much choice, because it went against her nature to leave him outside in that cold weather. So she stepped a little to the side, the hem of her dress brushed against the doorframe and his leg as he stepped inside. It brushed against some other things as well. He took his boots off. He set them neatly against the wall by the door. They were black, bulky working snow boots. And very stylish. Her own feet were socked, and they sunk deeply into the plush cream carpet beneath her feet. Soft and luxiourious there was no blood there.

The fox turned to look at her. He removed his hat, and he held it to his shoulder like a treasured token. “What now?” He asked in the uncomfortable silence.

“We can have some tea?” Molly suggested after a moment.

“Thanks.” He said awkwardly. He made as if to sit in the armchair. “May I?” He asked as he approached it. Molly nodded.

He sat down in the chair, sinking back deep into the cushions.

“This is great.” He said.

Only the lamp on the arm table was turned on, it cast a dim light in the small family room. There was a frosted window behind the chair, and a little fireplace too. The chair was centered right in the corner between the wall of the fireplace and the wall of the window. The kitchen where Molly now slipped into, was to the right of the family room.

The kettle whistled a boil, and Molly poured them both tea. She dropped sugar cubes into each cup like no tomorrow, or was she making tea for a horse? When she carried both saucers into the room, the fox rose to take his. He didn’t sit back down. They both stood before each other, facing each other. The fox dipped his head to take a sip from his cup, which he had lifted to his lips, and Molly did the same. The white and blue porcelain seemed almost too delicate to drink from. The cups could have been from a child’s set, they were so small. She set her cup with a delicate clink back on the saucer after she drank. The fox stopped to eye her pensively.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked, taking another sip.

“Nothing.” She said after a moment. “Dishes.” of course he knew about her mother, didn’t he? That’s why he came. He didn’t notice the pile by the door. There wasn’t any blood on those.

“Where are they?” He asked. Meaning the dishes.

“Over there.” She said plainly. “By the door.”

“But those killed her?” He wondered. His thick brow lifted in surprise. He turned to look at the heavy pile. Most of it consisted of heavy glass cookware that had fallen out of the top cabinet, right on top of her mother. The ones that hadn’t broken were there.

“She had a wound on her forehead.” Molly spoke quietly as if she were afraid to wake up from some travesty.

“So she got stoned by the pans?” The fox clarified insensitively. “She got knocked in the head by one and probably couldn’t do anything when the rest fell on her.” He said matter of factly. Most of them hadn’t broken, but they left her mother bruised and beaten as if a person had killed her.

“The dishes don’t have any blood on them.” Molly said slowly. “I took them out of the kitchen. I didn’t want them there. I washed them.”

“I see.” The fox said thoughtfully. He put the teacup back on the saucer. “Well I better get going then.” He said putting the cup on the arm table. He reached his arms up to stretch above his head, clasping his hands together.

The sound of the cabin door clicking shut interrupted them. Molly looked up to see that there was another even more imposing man standing there. The fly. He had slipped in unnoticed. The fox, Molly knew, was already well acquainted with him. His black trench coat and black fedora cap was an unsettling sight. His whole upper face from his nose up was cloaked in shadow, and his hands were hidden in his pockets suspiciously.

“Wow.” Said the fox, “I didn’t expect to see you here.” He was standing closer to the door now.

The fly was silent. The fox stared. Waiting.

“Well,” The fly said in a drawn rasp that sent shivers down Molly’s spine. “The dishes are still here, so I came back.”

“I see.” The fox said thoughtfully, then after a brief pause he asserted that the fly could assist him. “We can take those,” he gestured to the pile of dishes, “Out together.” Then he turned to Molly, “Or are you attached to this bakeware and pans heap that killed your mother?”

Molly stared at the pile heaped by the door. Her thoughts strayed to the lifeless body beside the river that animals had probably gotten to. Keeping those dishes there did nothing but make it hard for her to let others in. Or out. There was an oppressive weight about them, that she couldn’t take anymore. They didn’t belong. So, no. She didn’t want them anymore, and if the fly could help with that, so be it.

“Yes!” She decided. “Take them and go!” She shouted in a wild rush. “I hate them.”

And so, the fly and the fox, each carefully lifted their own stack of dishes, and made their way out, into the quiet stillness. Side by side they walked, as the sky started to warm in the orange and pink glow of dawn. Molly watched them go and her heart twisted and stretched. A soft brush of snow was falling and Molly could feel the weight that cluttered her heart lifting and opening, releasing a stagnancy so putrid she hadn’t known was there. The blood was gone, and there would be nothing left to torment her. Her mother was gone. Molly watched their backs in gratitude, as the fox and the fly, faded into the light.

She turned to look to her left, and right there in the icy earth, she could see the beginning green shoots of the tulips she had planted. Soon it would be warm enough for them to bloom. And until that day, she could scarcely wait.