where the fox grows

The wind chimes were going at it again. As the wind blew, they crashed feverishly into one another, a frantic dancing orchestra that woke the girl sleeping on the couch. 

As she blinked her eyes open and rubbed her cheek that had been pressed against a scratchy pillow all night, she glanced around the room worriedly. She began to absorb more sounds; the distant howl of a starving dog, the trees crashing together outside, rain colliding with the windows. With small, cold fingers, she pulled the sleeves of her sweater down to her wrists. Sleeves that had her name sewn into them with bright red thread five times over, Beatrice Dean, a name she had seen so often that she was beginning to feel sick of it. But her father had sown her name into all her clothes with hands so shaky she would oftentimes wonder how he managed to get the needle into the thread in the first place. He was always adamant that somebody would try to steal all their clothes one day, so he had to take certain measures. 

She stumbled to the kitchen for a glass of water when she saw her father sprawled across the ceramic tiled floor, his skin paler than the floor beneath him. He looked like somebody had tossed a corpse over a field of freshly fallen snow. The sunken skin mixed in with the sparkle of the white contrasted each other, and created a sort of unsettling peace. 

She nudged him with her toe. “Dad?” 

There were other things on the ceramic tiles. A large, dull needle, a spilled can of orange soda, and vomit. The girl wrinkled her nose and nudged him again. She knew that she had to keep trying to wake him up, so that he would slowly squint his eyes open, rake his fingernails across his chest and sit up. He’d be confused for a moment, and ask her if he had died, just like he would do every time. And she would quietly say no, just like she would do every time.

After a few more nudges, her lower lip began to quiver. The rain outside died down, but the trees were still thrashing. It sounded as though they were trying to get into the house, as if there was something terrifying outside. But the girl knew the true terror was inside the house. She felt as though someone was knitting a sweater inside her rib cage with sharp, hot needles. She needed to leave. 

Carefully, she stepped around her father, dodging the needle and the soda and the vomit. She stepped past the shiny black garbage bags dotted around the kitchen, glanced at the swarm of fruit flies that looked like locusts come to punish her and her father. She placed her hands on the doorknob of the back door and gave it a good twist. Usually, her father would lock all doors with a special key only he had, so she wouldn’t think of leaving, or worse, attempt to. But to her surprise, the door swung open to the outside. She glanced back at her father, wondering to herself why he would lie about the key. Wondering if there was something out there that might have stolen the key and unlocked everything. 

Outside was cold. Her socks mushed into the muddy ground, and the wind felt like fingers weeding up her spine. The long, dark trees that were so richly green that they looked blue, were pirouetting around her wildly. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen the outside of the house, especially when it had been so dark out. 

“Hello?” she mumbled, mostly to herself, just so she could hear something human within the howls of nature. “Hello?”

She saw a stream to her left, and she stumbled over to it. Moonlight winked over its tumbling waters. She saw her reflection, and was stunned by it. Her father had smashed all the mirrors in the house not too long ago, claiming that somebody was watching them through their surface. Staring at herself, she realized that her eyes had an uncanny fuzzy brightness to them, like television screens. She looked away quickly. 

The tears came so rapidly that she crashed to her knees. They were hot down her face, and salty on her lips. Something inside her stomach told her that her father had finally died, that she was finally all alone. She sank her hands into the piercingly cold water of the stream for a moment, and began to sob, scrunching her eyes shut tight. 

Unbeknownst to the girl, there was something rising up from the water. Something small and breathing, something red with big brown eyes and white ears. It rose from the water, gave a small flick of its tail, and sat beside her, watching her as she wept. Eventually, the girl felt its presence and slowly opened her eyes and turned her head, her eyes growing wide as saucers when she saw the animal sitting next to her. She thought it was a cat at first, with its pointy ears and whiskers. But she knew it wasn’t. This was an animal she had never seen before. 

“Hello?” she croaked, hoping deep within her stomach for a response. But all the fox did was blink at her. 

“I think my Dad is dead,” she said slowly, looking deeply into its brown eyes. She saw her reflection in them, small and scared and lost. “Can you help me?”

There was a pause. The fox opened its jaw. The inside of its mouth smelled as foul and as sweet as flowers on a grave. On its tongue was a small key, barely the size of the girl’s pinky finger. She reached out and took it, held its warm brass surface against the palm of her hand. Staring down at it, she knew it was important. She knew the key could solve everything. 

Quickly, she rose to her feet and began to run, the fox at her side. She could see the house in the distance if she squinted hard enough. She felt as though the ground was swaying beneath her feet, rocking her from side to side, threatening to crash her into the mud, pull her down where she could never crawl back up from. 

She pushed the back door open with all her might, and it swung so hard it slammed into the wall. Her father hadn’t moved. His eyes were still open, glassy like forgotten marbles. His mouth was slightly open, his lips parted and his tongue peeking out from behind yellow teeth. All the holes in his arms looked as though worms might crawl out of them. 

Crouching beside him, the smell of death and vomit making her want to scramble out from her skin, the girl inhaled shakily. 

“I know what to do now,” she said, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead with the back of her hand. “But you have to trust me. You have to believe it will work. Okay, Dad?”

She took the key from her palm, and placed it on his tongue. She watched the metal dissolve onto his tongue, disappearing in a matter of seconds. Relieved, she sat back on her knees and smiled at the fox. All would be well now. 

But her father didn’t open his eyes. His chest didn’t start to rise, she didn’t hear the scratchy sound of his breath. He was as still as a painting. 

The tears threatened to escape from her eyes again. She felt as though a rock, hot and heavy, was turning around over and over again in her stomach. Her father didn’t believe it would work. A part of her always knew he’d be satisfied with death, especially since he’d been chasing it since before she was born. The room was spinning. The fox began to grow bigger. She saw him grow to the size of a bear in the corner of her eye. 

Groping around her father’s head, the girl grabbed the needle. There was still some liquid left inside. She could see her reflection in the murky liquid, stretched out and twisted. She looked up at the fox. The bristly red fur on its head was brushing against the ceiling, its ear caught in the fan above the fridge. The girl ran to it, arm outstretched. With a scream muffled by the thrashing of the wind chimes outside, she plunged the needle into its chest.