Cheery Tangerine V 3.0

January 2. I started feeling ill today. How strange, for I have been healthy for so long. It started as a nervousness and an annoyance with the most benign things. Then a restless nature set in upon me, like I had forgotten something, or I was late for an appointment. This wasn’t the case, but yet I still found myself pacing around the house, rearranging knick-knacks as if they could relinquish some answer, some sort of knowledge as to my condition. By noon, exhaustion had set in and I tried to sleep. It was difficult, but I did sleep, and when I awoke from my hazy state, I found my jaw hurt. I must have been grinding my teeth during my nap. I shall make an appointment if these symptoms persist to see my doctor.

January 5. Went to my doctor this morning and, not surprisingly, he doesn’t know anything. For three days now I have hardly slept, but he could find nothing physically wrong, or at least nothing “alarming.” He found me to be generally on edge, as he put it, found my heart rate to be above normal and my nerves to be singing the high registers, but he says it’s nothing to be worried about. He gave me a cocktail of some sort for my nerves and suggested hot showers and exercise as a remedy. I took his cocktail along with a shower after returning, and I must admit, I feel no different. Still, I do not despair that his advice will come to help. Another couple days and I am sure I will feel myself again.

January 12. A full week, and still no change. Sleep has continued to elude me, like a slippery shadow created by the moonlight on a cloudy evening. No heat of the shower, nor the doctor’s foul cocktail has seen fit to relieve me of my surreal sleepless nights. I have taken to wandering to the ocean, the waves so beautifully adorned in their diamonds of light and scarves of froth. Relaxing they are to watch, but yet there I stand, my nervous twitches grinding my teeth to dust. Anyone else would find what ails them slipping away like waves, draining out of their bodies as they do of sand, but not I. Curse this sickness I have.


January 19. I finally got a good night’s sleep, just four days ago. What a marvel it was too! I awoke feeling refreshed and renewed. I was a flower who had received a long sought after drink; my leaves perked back and shook loose their wilt. But it was not to last, my suffering had merely been borrowed for the night by some other hapless, sorrowful creature. Within too few hours of awakening, I was feeling the familiar strain on my nervous system. I found myself sad for no apparent reason, and my jaw was beginning to ache again. What was it that was contributing to my bane? It was a beautiful day, and the wind was warm as it swept from the ocean and over the rocks into my bedroom window. By all accounts it was a day to be joyous, not dower. It seemed the smallest, most inconsequential details of the world irked me in some way. Were the clouds slightly too oblong for my liking? Maybe the ocean had been the wrong shade of blue? Whatever was wrong with the day seemed to be falsified by my very nature, and an intense dread set upon me, as if I was the sole purveyor of knowledge of a terrible misfortune about to occur.
That night, as I slowly, finally, began to fade into sweet slumber, something prodded at the edge of my consciousness. It was unpleasant in the utmost ways, like hot needles being run, point down, against the outside corner of the eye. I tried to wake, but could not and found myself terrified by my state. Aware of my slumber, but unable to wake, it created a panic that slowly burrowed through my chest. The burning, maybe not the best but I have no other way to describe it, grew worse until I felt as if my eyes were boiling in their membranes. I tried to scream with more and more force until I finally broke the surface of consciousness, erupting into my bedroom and gasping for air as if I had just barely escaped drowning.
I didn’t sleep again until yesterday.

January 30. Three nights in a row now I awoke to the same intense feeling of burning and drowning. Two weeks this has continued but now the burning is accompanied by strange visuals, psychedelic in nature, and a cacophony of noise. The noise is not of this earth and I doubt many have ever heard anything like it. It reminds me a thousand trains with rusty axles screeching to a halt inside my head, like I imagine Poe’s birds would sound when agitated. It is the symphony played by ghouls with out-of-tune instruments.
Yesterday, while I was cutting bread for my lunch, my jaw grinding away, and my hands shaking, I accidentally cut my finger rather deep. It didn’t hurt, but the feeling of the serrated knife cutting my flesh and sinew made me cringe, and made my mouth salivate, which disconcerted me quite effectively. I watched the blood pool on the counter and seep up into the bread. I traced its route as it dispersed through the porous starch. I was fascinated by its color and found that my jaw had quit grinding and my hands had steadied enough for the approval of a watchmaker. Placing the finger in my mouth, the blood swam across my tongue, warm and viscous. It was fairly delicious, and this thought made the shake return once again and left me with my nervous twitch.

February 8. How long can one go without sleep, I wonder. I guess I have been sleeping, but an hour here and an hour there, that doesn’t seem to be enough. I feel as if I have now met each and every grain of sand on the beach. I have seen individual waves more than once. The moon has shone on me throughout its nightly trek many times.
I went back to the doctor today. He said there was nothing wrong again, but was worried by my loss of twenty pounds, by the marathon my heart runs, and the ocean my sweat glands exude. He told me to eat more, to exercise, and he refilled my cocktail, this time a tad stronger. The same as last time, he said it will help. I am becoming more inclined to disagree.

February 14. The walls of my room were the wrong color when I awoke yesterday. Their cheery tangerine had been replaced by dreadful red. Red like the color of my blood in the bread. Did I paint the walls? Why would I have, I hate the color. I couldn’t imagine doing it and couldn’t find paint anywhere in the house or the shed out back. Was I intruded upon in the night? Impossible, I would have heard something, seen something. Curious to see if the paint was wet, I approached the wall. It was cold and dry, but when I pulled my hand away, it was still there, a shadow or silhouette on the wall exactly where my hand had been. I went to the kitchen and got a knife. The paint peeled off the wall easily, strips as long as my arm and a foot wide fell to the floor around me. Under it, I expected to see the cheery tangerine, but no, I was mistaken. Underneath was more blood-bread red, and underneath that was just more of the same. I was overtaken by panic and began frenetically tearing all the paint off, but the red was still there. I tore until I could not anymore and collapsed at the base of a wall and slept.
When I awoke, all I could see was cheery tangerine.

February 19. No more changing of the paint, but the screeching, I hear it again, loud and clear. It aroused me out of bed and have been following me around all day ever since. Shortly before lunchtime, I made my way down to the kitchen to fix myself something. This sickness that has overcome my mind and soul, has made my body unwilling to make too many treks out of my room, and appropriately, in a sinister way, the journey left me weak and worn. I decided I would bring myself something back so I would have to venture out less.
When I was in the kitchen, the noise that I had almost begun to fully tune out changed and came back to my attention. It relinquished its harshness and shifted into voices, mere whispers, borne on the winds. I could not understand the words, but I could feel their meaning, their maliciousness, and they bit into my conscious self, tearing small parts away and leaving pieces of me to languish on the floor. It was too much. Scarred, and almost blind with imagery, I ran for the stairs, falling up them three at a time. I made it back here, to my room, to my pen. I didn’t eat, and the events of the day have left me tired. I shall nap now, and hopefully when I awake, I will be able to try for sustenance again. My stomach grumbles dejectedly at me as I dot this sentence.

February 23. During lunch today, I could barely eat for the voices had become not so much whispers and wind, but loud militant chants in a language I know not. It shakes my head and the bones in my face harmonize with them silently. They taunt me, like a bully on the playground, unrelenting and unforgiving. After lunch, I took drastic steps to rid myself of their chants, but it did not work. Was the pen not long enough, or sharp enough? Should I have pressed harder? I don’t think so, as I can no longer hear the sounds of my own footsteps falling on the wood, but much more disturbing, I cannot hear the sound of my own voice anymore. I can feel it, resonating inside of my head like bees, but the actual sound is lost to me. A sickly opaque orange fluid seeps steadily out of my ears; I can feel it running down my cheek even now, long after the event.
This pen, the one I am writing with, seems heavy and bulbous in my hands, and it presses against my fingers like it wants to escape, as if it is tired of its job, but I cannot grant it freedom. Writing now seems to be the one tangible left in my existence, the only thing that seems real.
As I sit here scribbling my shaky words, the din in my head threatens to overcome my ability to think and write.

February 28. The voices have left my head finally, but now I hear them, no, I feel them, from everywhere. They seem to be seeping out of my walls and floors, out of the cabinets in the kitchen and out of my dresser in my room. They speak volumes of what, I do not know.
I have been sensing footsteps too, or maybe just their creators, all around the house, on the veranda and the upper balconies. This morning I went to the shed behind the house, during my journey I failed to see the source. The sunlight in the backyard was blinding and the wind was quite nip and harsh. Once in the shed, I filled the wheelbarrow with wood planks and panels, and grabbed a box of nails. The shovel leaning against the door jam seemed to be calling to me. It told me I would need its friendship. Good old shovel, rusting and dry, but a friend I need, so into the wheelbarrow it went.
When I returned I could feel the footsteps more than before, like some silent bass drum being played on my porch. I nailed the wood planks into the front and backdoors, taking redundancy into account. The makeshift locks are strong and they should hold against anything. The windows on the ground floor I did the same, nailing panels into their frames. More footsteps around the house now than before, but they can’t get in here, not after all my work. As a last step, I fashioned a removable block for my bedroom door, effectively barricading myself in, while leaving myself the ability to exit when need be. Why hadn’t I done this earlier, creating this sanctuary has left me feeling immensely better. Tonight, I shall sleep and dream of beautiful, peaceful things.

March 1. I didn’t sleep, of course. Why would I be so silly to think that I could have one good night’s rest amidst the full calendar of sleepless nights? I need to eat, but everything in my house is rotting. Rotting food, rotting flesh, and rotting mind. The maggots spill out of my refrigerator on to the floor where they disappear into the cracks of the wood. I can hear them too, grinding away under the floor, their conversations focus on me, devouring me, ending this once and for all. I applaud them, in their conviction, the dedication to their goal. They will win; they will get me, maybe tonight. I say I want them to succeed, but still this evening, I will maintain a constant vigil with the shovel, although I am not sure if it is the best of defense tools. Its head is rusting and it looks as if the worms may have gotten hold of the shaft. It still has plenty of weight but I fear the shaft will not hold should I, God forbid, be forced to use it. The wood is dry and it may be brittle, but still, I will defend myself as necessary from their disgusting writhing white bodies, their infectious thirst for my blood and meat.

March 4. Four days, and four nights. There is something, or someone, maybe more than one, in my house. I can sense them, moving about and opening my drawers, inspecting my bookshelves, slamming doors. What they look for, if they are indeed looking for something, I cannot comprehend. I find myself locked in my bedroom, awaiting their arrival, awaiting my fate. My stash of water ran out last night and most certainly, I will perish unless I replenish my supplies, but that means an expedition must be launched, an expedition out of my sanctuary into the depths of the house. This is not something I look forward to.

March 5. This morning, when everything was at a relative calm, I mounted my expedition into the heart of the house for supplies. I brought my shovel with me, just in case, but hoping I wouldn’t need it. Everything in the house seemed in order and I made it to the kitchen safely. The sunlight was very bright filtering through the clerestory windows in the kitchen and it burned my eyes. Struggling to see, I filled my jug with water from the faucet. It was so heavy when I lifted it out I nearly dropped it. The grinding in my jaw has stopped but now it is replaced with a near constant chatter and I feared that the sound would give my position away.
Lugging the heavy jug through the hall to the stairs, I was overcome with an intense sense of foreboding, of the darkness pressing down upon the house and pushing out the light, of evil seeping through the cracks of the walls and the pores of my body. I grew cold and dropped the jug of water, spilling it over the stairs. The light fled the room and I collapsed to the floor, clutching the shovel to my chest I began to cry. Peering through the darkness, shifting forms formed in front of my eyes and crept closer to me, drifting in and out of my focus. Shapes like outlines of people, tall monstrous entities with no face or discernible features. They appeared to be hooded and they stood over me, chattering amongst themselves in clicks and grunts, and high wails. I could make out at least six of them plotting what to do with me, how to kill me. I remember now, I had a moment when the fear released me from its cold grasp, and I was able to move again. Swinging with all my might, the shovel passed through their bodies, contacting nothing until the wall, and an un-godly, yet god-like cacophony, filled my head. They moved in for the kill and the darkness became absolute, I closed my eyes and wished it all to be over.
When I awoke, it was in my room. Face down on the cold wood, I slowly opened my eyes and saw the jug, full as it had been before I dropped it, the shovel lying serenely next to it and starring at me with its rusted face. I seem to be no worse for the ware, which leads to questions. Why am I alive, did they let me live? Did I facilitate my own escape and in my panic I blocked it all out? What is going on here?
The events of the day are deeply troubling to me.

March 10. Terrible, it is all so terrible. All I can hear, though I am aware that I don’t really hear, is the constant roar of the voices of the inhabitants of this house, their footsteps and what sounds like nails drawn across a chalkboard, and I feel my own sobbing. Am I even really sobbing, there are no tears, maybe because I am dehydrated. My jug sits here, now almost empty. I have been rationing myself so severely to make it last these five days that my mouth is dry and my skin is gray. I swear the jug taunts me, reminding me over and over that again I will have to venture out to get more, and to get bread, what little I have that isn’t covered in mold, if I am to survive much longer.
I must find a way to escape this prison that has formed in my house, or I will surely starve. My clothes don’t fit anymore and I can feel my bones grinding against atrophied muscles. My time is short; I fear soon I will no longer have the strength to even write.

March 15. I can feel them now, clear as day, right outside my door. They run their hands over the wood and they click amongst themselves, their slow shuffling and dragging of heavy feet grates on my already much-too-wary nerves. Occasionally, they make a push to get through the door and I can see it straining against its hinges and locks and the barricade frowns at me, sad about its pending failure. They have kept me up constantly, I see the door shaking more and more often, and now my water is gone. I have been unable to leave my room to acquire more, and now for four days I have been without a drop. I no longer have the strength to drag myself to the jug, to even lift it to get that last minuscule drop, much less to venture out to get more. Even this pen seems mighty heavy.

March 18. With the utmost certitude, this entry will be my last. My desecration is complete and the door to my room stands open. When it was opened I do not know, nor do I know what they are waiting for. The wood is cold against my face, but I cannot get up
I can sense their approach; the floor vibrates with their movements on the stairs. They are coming for me, the end of this madness is near. I welcome it. I walk towards it with open arms, a smile on my face in the sun, warm and comforting, it caresses me as I fade away.

The Apocalypse Insise of an Orange (V 3.0)

"I am nine years old today,” Molly said to Mr. Madrid and Ms. Paris.
"Well congratulations beautiful, you deserve a tremendous present," Mr. Madrid said; Ms. Paris smiled serenely and winked at Molly.
"Do you think I will get anything this time?" She frowned after saying it, wishing that she hadn’t. Molly didn’t like to ponder such somber thoughts.
"I think you will have the most marvelous birthday you ever had, sweetie. I can feel it in the air." Miss Paris said.
"I hope so, last year wasn't so lovely." Molly remembered her eighth birthday all too well. She remembered her parents yelling at each other, and then at her. She remembered when her dad brought the shovel inside, and she remembered when he had used it to club the dog to death and then bury it in the yard. Her father had told her it was her fault, and this was her punishment. She could distinctly remember the smell of blood.
"Come on, I can smell breakfast cooking, lets go downstairs." Molly grabbed Mr. Madrid and Miss Paris, stuffed them into the front pockets of her overalls, and skipped down the stairs. The house was already beginning to heat up from the bright summer sun, the light piercing at sharp angles though windows with their curtains open. The walls were covered in dirty white paint that was slowly beginning to peel off the walls, like a banana peel, drooping towards the floor in long strips. The house glowed a sickly orange shade. Molly reached the landing with a loud thud, the stairs behind still reeling from her jaunt down. Her father came through the front door, a basket of eggs in one hand and two headless chickens in the other. The twitch of the chickens disturbed Molly, but she wouldn’t let her father see it in her eyes.
"God damn girl, you’re going to make the whole damn house fall on us. Quit making so much noise." Molly's father was a tall, wiry man, his cheeks sunk into his face like pieces of cloth pulled tight across his bones. His eyes were hidden back in his forehead; it was hard to distinguish any color or white in them for his oversize brow shadowed them. He had a sort of Neanderthal look about him.
"Sorry daddy," Molly started, "I'm just happy today." Her words came out innocent, her voice was soft and quivered, as if her words were fragile and teetering on the edge of a shelf.
"Well I ain't, so get out of my way." The look in her father's eyes immediately settled her and she turned away from him, with her head hung low, whispering to Mr. Madrid and Miss Paris.

"I shouldn't have upset him, something bad might happen like last year."
"Its okay honey, it's good you didn't provoke him. You need to be careful though, don’t tread on his toes. He'll warm up, you'll see." Miss Paris always calmed Molly down.
"I hope so." Molly was sad again. The day was not starting off as well as she had hoped.
"You have every right to be happy today, missy. Miss Paris doesn't know what she is talking about. Don't let him stand in your way of fun. You do what you want," Mr. Madrid chimed in, invoking a sense of rebellion in Molly.
"I know exactly what I am talking about. Don't encourage her, Madrid. You know what happened last time she put a finger out." Miss Paris' scolding was harsh and put Molly back in her funk. Molly's mom walked into the anteroom carrying a plate of eggs and sausage.
"Who are you talking to, baby?" Molly's mother asked.
"Just Miss Paris and Mr. Madrid. I wish they would get along better." A look of worry rolled across her mother's face, her long blond locks glowed with sunlight streaming through the windows. She had a halo about her, a sense of angelic charm and charity. She used to be a beautiful woman, and used to be confident and full of what some might call a ‘zest for life.’ This what not the case anymore, and now she was sunken and hollow, her dreams having been put out to rot in the fields long ago.
"Do they have anything good to say today?" Molly's mother asked her.
"Not really, they're arguing again over the best advice to give me. They never agree on anything."
"Honey, I am not sure that taking advice from your dolls is such a good thing. Maybe you should come to me with your problems instead." Andrea's voice was tinged with pleading, encouragement. "Do you want some breakfast, I made it for you on your big day." Andrea leaned closer to her daughter and whispered into Molly's ear. "This afternoon, come meet me by the old tree, the one above your place, I have something special for you." She smiled at Molly and gave her a little kiss on the forehead and a mischievous grin and moved back into the kitchen. Molly's father was sitting at the table cleaning one of the chickens; blood and feathers were strewn all over the kitchen table.
"Jesus, clean this mess up, we are just about to eat breakfast. Do this outside, where you belong. It's Molly's birthday today."
"Woman, don't you dare open your mouth to me like that. I ought to bust your lip for that. And what do I care about Molly's birthday? Just means she getting bigger and needing more food and such. Mind your place, cook and clean, that's what you do, not open your damn mouth."
"How dare you talk to me like that, especially in front of Molly. You have no right to..."
"You need to shut up right this minute, bitch. I have no right to what? You have no right to anything. You're my wife, and you will do as you are told, now sit the hell down." Andrea didn't sit down, she glanced at Molly who was cowering behind her and seemed to get even bigger. A fast movement and Andrea dropped the plates of food. They shattered at Molly's feet, splashing egg on to her overalls. Molly's mother was bent over the table, thick red liquid dripping from her broken nose, mingling with her tears and then dropping to the table.

Molly bolted out of the kitchen and into the fields behind the house, with her father's voice following her out. "You get back up and I will hit you again." She left without her shoes and ran as hard as she could through the hard, prickly straw, heading for a small cave on the other side of the hill in front of her. She was scared but she forced herself not to cry, reminding herself that crying was a sign of weakness. When she was younger, her father had always hit her when she cried, yelling at her that she was not allowed to cry, to show weakness. She was strong and in control of her emotions and sprinted over the hill without issue. She found her cave and sat down to catch her breath. This was Molly's safe place, her panic room. It was small, the ceiling barely high enough for a small nine year old girl to stand upright in. The walls were smooth and black and hard, and Molly had drawn all over them with pastels her mother had given her a couple years ago on Christmas. Most of the pictures were simple, peaceful scenes of a life she longed for. She drew in the greens and blues and pinks that were so rare to be seen in her existence. There were mushrooms growing out of the damp ground, nearly covering every square inch of it. She couldn't hear anything inside the cave other than a soft wind whistling at the opening, and the soothing white noise of hay swaying, like a fan on random intervals. She couldn't hear the shouting and she liked it that way.

"Well guys, should we go, or should we stay here?” Molly asked Mr. Madrid and Miss Paris. “Oh sorry Miss Paris, I didn’t see that." Miss Paris still had egg on her face, and Molly wiped it off gingerly.
"Remember what happened last time we went there. You got us lost and your mother was furious, told you never to go back there if I remember correctly." Miss Paris was right, the last time had been dreadful, but she longed to return. She was needed there, in her kingdom.
"I think we should go. You need to have some fun today, Molly. It's your birthday, do whatever you think will be fun." Mr. Madrid said.
"I am supposed to meet mommy in a little bit, what if we don't come back in time? What if I miss her and she is angry and doesn't give me my surprise?" There were tears in Molly's eyes now. "What if she doesn't love me anymore, and she hurts me like dad? I don't want any more hurts. What if we could take mommy with us, for good, and get away from dad? Is that possible? We could give her the keys too, and then we could all go away together and never come back. I never want to be without her." Molly was sobbing and Mr. Madrid and Miss Paris were looked on helpless as Molly’s stress boiled over the top and sputtered on the burner.

The wind shifted and the sounds changed, the whistle at the opening of the cave gave way to the sound of thunder in the distance and the air smelled of fresh summer rain. There was a short, scraggly tree near the entrance of the cave, and Molly noticed a curious bluebird sitting in its branches, hunkering down against the wind. Molly was sure the bluebird was staring at her. Its blue plumage, so perfect in its shade, was magically juxtaposed against a world that had racist tendencies against bright primary colors. She stared back and slowly stopped crying, her body heaved in deep but slow sobs. Occasionally the bluebird would cock its head from side to side, but it's eyes never left Molly's. She was transfixed. And then the sound reached her mind, a sound of heavenly music; of choirs full of beautiful angels, like flocks of bluebirds singing in perfect harmony. The sound coalesced slowly into words, still in the tones of the heavens. At first Molly couldn't understand what she was hearing, and her eyes were still upon the bluebird, and its eyes were still upon her. She began to understand. It was her mother's voice, and it was telling her that she loved her very much. It was saying that everything was going to be okay, if she just heads for the tracks. There was mention of an orange tree, something about it bringing light to her life. Something else then followed about heading west, but Molly was confused and having a harder time following the words. Again it said that she loved her, and to remember to go to the train tracks. Thuds from above forced Molly to finally look away from the bluebird, and the second she did, it flew off the branch and disappeared into the distance.

The orange tree, still in its burlap sack of dirt, tumbled through the entrance, knocking down Miss Paris, a couple errant oranges rolled across the floor to Molly. Molly's father stood at the door, an axe and something about the size of soccer ball in a bag in his hands.
"Your mother wanted to give you that for your birthday." His eyes were like black holes in the sky, totally devoid of life. Whatever was in the bag was leaking. "She spent the last of our savings on it. She figured you could plant it together. The wretched witch never told me about it. I found it by that old tree over there. I only just found out about it. But she got her comings, oh yes she did." He dropped the bag on the floor and Andrea's lifeless head rolled, landing face down and teetering back and forth on her broken nose. The eyes were still open. Molly stared in shock, her mind filled with white noise, as her father moved towards the orange tree on the ground. Lying under the tree was Miss Paris, and Molly's father reached down and picked the doll up off the ground.
“Now, what’s this? Miss Paris? You wouldn’t want nothing bad to happen to Miss Paris, would you, sweetheart?”
“Please don’t hurt Miss Paris, she didn’t do anything to you.” Molly screamed, she was terrified and hysterical; she had no idea what was happening to her.
“Nah, I guess she didn’t. But your momma did. And your momma gave us you, and without you, there never would have been a Miss Paris. You by all logical reasoning, Miss Paris stands as guilty as the rest of you. She got hers now, but you are going to learn a lesson here.” He set Miss Paris down on the ground in front of him and raised the axe above his head.
“Any last words to your precious Miss Paris?” Miss Paris looked at Molly, she wore a sad smile and her eyes were kind and caring.
“Molly, it will be alright, my darling. Remember what she said. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” Molly started to sob again as Miss Paris looked at her, her smile never changing. The axe came down through Miss Paris’ head, splintering the plastic doll to pieces; shards of rock stung Molly’s face. She collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably as her father stood at the mouth of cave, laughing and wheezing. Her father looked around, and stumbled a bit, “Now where’s that other doll of yours, Mr. Whatever, he’s up now.” She still had Mr. Madrid in her pocket and she could feel him struggling to reach the surface, but she wouldn’t let him out, he was all she had left.

“Miss Molly,” Mr. Madrid was whispering. “Miss Molly, now’s our chance, he is distracted looking for me, he’s drunk. We can get away.”
“What if he catches us, he will kill us both?” Molly’s voice was barely distinguishable from her sobs.
“Make sure he can’t. We have to try, he will kill us anyway.” Mr. Madrid was right, and Molly knew it. She took a deep breath and her sobs relaxed a little. She knew what to do.

Slowly she stood up; her mind was clearing out the white noise that had buffered her from the situation. She sprinted directly at her father as he took another drunken stumble around the cave, knocking his head hard against the ceiling. His face clenched and he collapsed to the floor, the axe clanging against the hard rock floor. He screamed a string of obscenities at Molly and the cave and struggled to regain composure. Molly picked up the axe while her father writhed; it was heavy but she could lift it, and manage it a bit, and she buried into his forehead. His writhing and cursing stopped.
In fact, there was no noise at all to Molly as she wiped a spattering of blood across her overalls; she couldn’t hear the wind, and she couldn’t see the walls of the cave. White noise descended upon her, enveloping her like a giant cotton ball, protecting her for a moment from reality. She drifted away from the cave and the horror, finding herself riding the wind like dandelion achenes over endless fields of green grass. It was beautiful and for a moment she felt good again, and whole.

Molly stood in the cave for what seemed like an hour without moving or blinking, lost to the wind and the cotton, nobody manning the cockpit. Mr. Madrid remained silent the whole time. Finally, Molly began to move again as her surroundings became reality again. She picked up the orange tree and brushed some dust from the leaves. The tree was only a couple feet tall and it was skinny and light, and she could carry it with ease. She had one thing on her mind, to follow her mother’s instructions and head for the railroad tracks. The tracks were about half a mile away, and she took her time getting there. Occasionally her or Mr. Madrid would make some small quip, but conversation never developed. She walked the tracks for a couple of hours, crying here and there, and then gaining small amounts of control over her emotions. As the sun was setting, she heard the sounds of a train approaching behind her. She hid behind a bush and asked Mr. Madrid if they should try to get on it. They conversed for a short while before deciding that they might as well try. As the train passed, Molly ran with Mr. Madrid in her pocket and the orange tree in one hand. The train was slow and she had no problem hoisting herself into the boxcar. The inside of the boxcar was lined with soft hay, unlike the kinds that grew in her father’s fields. The thought of her father pained her momentarily. On top of the hay were hundreds of boxes of fruit and vegetables, and on the side the address for delivery was listed. San Diego, California. She sat down and ate an orange off the tree, the last remaining. So sweet and perfect was the orange, but she was numb to it for most of her eating. Slowly, she began to taste it and she became aware that she was sore, the first she had felt physically in a couple hours. She cried as she ate, thinking of her mother the whole time. She really loved me, she thought, as she began to fall asleep. She pushed some hay into a pile and laid her head down upon it and fell asleep almost immediately.

The bluebird flew low over the boxcar, occasionally coming into land on the roof to rest it’s tired wings. The train picked up speed as traveled through the plains of Nebraska and eastern Colorado. The bluebird, sensing it would soon be outmatched for speed, flew in through the open door and came to rest on top of a stack of boxes. Its eyes were kind and as it nestled down to rest, it stared at Molly. The bluebird watched as Molly slept, never taking its eyes off of her.