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.