Autumn Flowers by Angelina Tang

Autumn Flowers ANGELINA TANG

walk me to the garden’s center before breaking the mirror, please When skin splits, red petals fall. This, she knows for sure.

And yet she knows nothing else, not in this chaos deco. There are white blossoms, sickly orange, dark pink and bright yellow—they surround her, filling her mindscape, her vision, her bedroom, her skin. She is bloated, the petals floating out and laying like a blanket around her small body; is she even home still, or is she in hell? What agony pulses through her chest, what thorns in her feet. She’s crumpled on the floor, in the dirt, in the petals, and she’s lost in a meadow of torn organs.

But she is a dumb girl, a simple child; she cannot name any of the flowers, despite their shapely petals, their radiant colors. Can she name herself, either?

She is a guest to this world, one who has found herself in a stranger’s home, and she cannot locate the exit.

There are two figures before her: one a human made of pink flowers, the other of orange. They might be making noise; it’s indiscernible over the sirens in her ears, the screaming voices clamoring for her ill affections, and her head is spinning, she feels ill; hey, mama, will you pick me up and lay a blanket over my bones?

And yet, she cannot push the words from her mouth, no matter how she wishes to utter them. She can’t even cry; all that falls from her tongue is the sickly feel of velvet petals, dusty roots, sawtooth leaves.

Hurts. It hurts.

I hope it ends soon.

It does, as swiftly as sleep.

When she next awakens, she is still trapped, like an insect within an eggshell, one made of flowers instead of dead calcium. Opening her eyes reveals the yawning dome of shadowed petals high above her head; the ones around her, so multicolored and multifaceted, are yawning and blooming and wilting in succession, spinning like a hypnotist’s finger. She feels dizzy. She feels sick. Why does her head hurt, and why does her chest?

There are voices all around her, yet the words are distorted when they meet her ears. No matter how hard she strains to understand, they are unclear, and it compounds the tightness in her chest. Why can’t I get it? Maybe they are aliens, kidnapping me, taking me to hell. Maybe this is purgatory. Sticky, brown nectar drips from the ceiling; it licks its way down her face, yet she cannot move her hand to wipe it away. Wipe it off. WIPE IT OFF. Why won’t you remove it?

There are hands upon her body, hands on her face, but they do nothing to the sap. Its smell makes her want to throw up all over again, but somehow, doing so on herself seems undesirable.

She’s unsure how much time has passed, but she is certain that her environment has remained unchanged. This is reality. I’m sure of it. Reality hurts and is filled with flowers. I am a child lost in a meadow. There are cicadas birthed from some of the flowers; they land on her, on occasion. Sometimes there are rubbery hands, and they force the insects down her throat. She wishes to protest, but her body rebels; I am to oblige and obey.

With time, though, the sickness begins to pass; she takes bland oatmeal and does not spit it up. She realizes it is a pill, not a cicada shell, that is being slid so bitterly down her throat. She realizes that there are figures behind the hands, only they take on odd shapes, tall and slim-necked or covered in feathers. Their features are undefinable; the strange, growling voice that asks questions right in her ear seems to misunderstand her, telling her, “Okay, okay,” every single day.

She realizes that the garbled voices are forming word, intelligible phrases.

Their inflections are familiar, yet she cannot remember why. “Useless girl, look where you’ve ended up.” “What if they’re trying to kill you with those meds?”

“Wow! What a comfy bed you’ve got. No work and all sleep.” “Mama, I feel sick.” What do they mean? They’re giving her a headache; where are they

coming from, the heavens? She feels light; hollow. Her bones themselves seem to be rotting, her flesh peeling away. Perhaps she really is being taken away.

She is aware that there are days elapsing. Since she began counting, there have been seven.

On the second was when she ate, and when the sky opened up above her.

On the fourth was when she sat up and saw the square walls.

On the fifth was when she tried to walk and fell onto a cold, hard floor, even the flowers feeling like glass sculptures upon her thinning, worn-down body. No blood was drawn, and no bruises blossomed under her pale skin.

Even she was surprised.

On the seventh, she is taken by hand out of the flower-infested room, led down the tunnel and handed off to another in the backseat of a stuffy car. The door is shut behind her as if she were a caged animal.

When she is next aware, she finds herself in a different, hazier sort of garden. There are blossoms on the ceiling, cast in a dim, jaundiced light, a texture like resin laid over their curves; when she sits up, she’s almost surprised to find herself feeling fine. She’s sitting in a bed, dressed in nightclothes under crisp, white sheets. I’m hungry. “Let’s go to the city!” No, let’s not. “There are birds in the hall. They sound dangerous.”

“Get up and see, then, you useless girl.” That male voice, beyond all the

others—it feels as familiar as her own soul, and she feels her body pull to oblige by it. Tossing her legs over the edge of the mattress and stepping out onto cold tile, she drinks in the silent, faded chamber. It is distinctively human-made, and she rejoices in the idea of civilization at all amidst purgatory. There are desks bearing wilted bouquets, two doors that she can see; the floor is smooth, and yet littered. There are fish, great carp and koi, swimming in the walls, with bulging eyes filled with blood vessels. They bear flowers on their flanks, like knife carvings bleeding black veils. Lost fish, this is no home for you. “What if we’re doomed to wander alone forever?”

She is suddenly aware of a pressure on her arms, and pulling back her sleeves reveals bandages, pure as freshly fallen snow, stifling the blossoms under their weight. She tries to tug them off, but her fingers fumble; no worry, she thinks. I will find a scalpel. “Worthless, worthless, worthless, I am worthless and stupid and I never deserved to be born.” Me too, little one. How did you know?

She takes one step, then two, stumbling on roughened bone. Feels like crumbling sheep hooves. Staggering to the first door, one pasted with thorns, she

reaches out for the doorknob but flinches back at its worn, metallic touch. She tries again, only for the same to happen; this time, footsteps emerge on the other side, and the door opens outwards to reveal what she has summoned.

A crane, towering perhaps a foot over her head, bears down on her. She blinks up at its nearly serpentine face, its long, screwdriver beak and off-white feathers, the long crest, the sharp eyes like onyx. “It could kill you in an instant.

Watch out. Stand back. Protect your chest and head.” She notes the white flowers, as white as the gauze, the thin petals and small cores. Chrysanthemums.

She had always liked them, or at least so she thinks; how else would she know them, of all things? “Did you know mums are funeral flowers in the East?”

And yet they are distorted upon the bird’s figure, covering its feathers in their weight. The buds break through its lanky, scaly legs, but the flesh underneath is pure white. When skin splits, red petals fall; there, her doctrine has been broken already. “Stupid, you’re stupid.” The bird is unnatural, its face distorting into a Western dragon’s, and she reels back, her chest tightening. She wants to speak, but when she remembers the taste of the bitter flowers in her throat she stops short. “Are you okay? Do you feel sick?”

“Ah, you’re awake.” The crane has a female voice. There is an edge of care in her words, but it frightens the girl. “You don’t deserve it. You are unlovable.” “I’m sorry, but you cannot go out yet. Not today. The other nurses will be in shortly to see you, and they’ll bring food and water, too.”

Nurses? Gruidae eyes stare down at her unblinkingly, without light in their gloss. “Are you nonverbal?” the chrysanthemum host asks. No, no, of course I’m not. I’m talking now, aren’t I? I’m communicating, being a good child. Yet she can only watch helplessly as the crane slowly nods, biting her tongue until she tastes metal. “Okay. That won’t be a problem.” No, that is. Why won’t you listen to me?

How do you know who I am? “Speak louder, then, won’t you?” “I’ll stay here with you for a bit, okay? You can take a look around.”

The crane enters, and her patient is forced to step back and permit her entry. “Oblige. Oblige. You know you’ll get in trouble if you don’t. Be careful, now.” I understand. The door shuts behind her; her hope is lost, just like that.

“The bathroom is over there, just so that you know,” she presently says. The girl watches the flowers get crushed under her steps, her long, grey nails. When the

bird doesn’t say another word and instead halts by the wall, fresh blossoms stretching up between her toes, her subject walks to the other door. “She’s nice, I think!”

She half expects the knob to lash out like a coiled snake, but it gives with ease; it’s a small bathroom, cast in yellowed light. The wallpaper is peeling, the tile worn at the seams, broken like sidewalk cracks by grass and weeds; invasive.

“Careful not to step on the thorns. There could be monsters behind them.” What if I fall through? She steps forth, only for her reflection in her peripheral to catch her still, a lamb in headlights.

In the mirror, there is a thin girl with tangled, black hair, her skin so pale it’s green, eyes gaunt and sunken in. If the crane’s eyes were glass, then hers are made of stone, like playground rocks; they’re not even pretty. Maybe they once were, perhaps before the hospital tore them out and replaced them; she can see the cores of dead flowers in her pupils, plagued by maggots freshly hatched and waiting to feed. “Look at how thin you are. You need to eat more!” “God, you’re dying, you’re dying.” Her own gaze renders her sick; she backs off, crushing the petals under her heel. She can feel the crane’s gaze in her back.

“Ugly. So ugly, so disgusting of a girl you are.” “Qiūhuā, are you okay?” she asks, and the girl turns at the phrase.

Qiū… huā? My name. There is a sharp jolt of clarity, the contours of the inflections inset into her skull. She sees the flowers blooming, abruptly, anemic daisies, yellow buttercups, Oh God, they have names, and so do I, I’m Qiūhuā. I… Who am I? There is a swing on a sunny day, a stack of books and a clock reading 1:37 a.m.; there is blood on a sidewalk, a takeout box, a shattered vase; there are flowers on the wall and flowers on the floor and flowers in her hair and her mouth and her liver and she feels the air spinning around her, stagnant yet fever-inducing. “I don’t want to live here anymore.” “Qiūhuā!”

A rubbery pair of hands catch her, but she’s not sure whose they are.

I was a child in a meadow.

This place, so filled with morbid anomalies—this is surely not her garden.

the chrysanthemums will surely rot before the procession When she next comes to, she’s back in her bed.

Maybe it was all a dream. “I hear the sound of stir-fry. Maybe it’s noodles!” Sitting up and rubbing her eyes, she finds herself in the same room; the walls are cast in garland nooses and dead fish, the floor an optical nightmare.

“Not a dream.” The crane by the door turns; a large sparrow stands beside her, so angel-white, matching in full bloom with funeral flowers. Oh? Taking me? I wonder if heaven is rainbow or green. “Maybe it’s hell, not heaven, you’re bound for.”

“Oh, Choha is awake!” For a moment, as she watches the sparrow approach her, she’s unsure of who she’s referring to; when she reaches her, though, Qiūhuā realizes it’s herself. Inflection’s wrong. Here, I’ll teach you, it’s just like in Kindergarten. “Come on, honey, it’s time for breakfast. You haven’t eaten in a day, you poor thing. Slept like the dead after that black-out of yours. We’ll bathe first, okay?” Why don’t you care to learn?

Qiūhuā is unsure how, for the bird does not have hands, but she is guided to the bathroom by a rubbery touch, her steps cautious to avoid the blackened tile cracks. The yellow light is turned on, and abruptly, she remembers the vertigo her reflection had given her; but today, she cannot see a reflection at all.

The mirror is an overgrowth, the blooms opening and wilting in rapid succession like hypnosis rings. “It’s so bad that you can’t see it anymore. How awful.” Despite her words, the girl in her head does not seem sympathetic in the least. She’d stare a bit longer, if the sparrow hadn’t begun to undress her and guide her towards the shower. “Baby, I know, you probably don’t even recognize yourself. It’s okay; you’ll be fresh as a daisy once we get you washed up and fed.”

Daisy. The picture of that little yellow core wreathed in cloud-white floods her brain, hooking her to a single phrase, Mother; it’s meaningless to her. A mother? Did I ever have one? “Your mama’s green onion pancakes are the best.” Why is it that she cannot name the voices, and why is it that the sparrow has stripped her to the skin? “Be careful she does not touch you, you dirty little thing.” She gazes down blankly at her bare stomach, her knees; the

bandages are still there, ensnaring her arms. I understand. I am bare, infertile soil, so I do not have the right to question. No muddling and no fumbling. I am dirty and I am a curse.

She is watered as such, the heat of the shower tearing the dried sweat from her. Her bandages are wet, and her arms feel as if they have caught fire.

Must’ve been oil under there. “We need to wash it out with bleach, then.” But her guardian does not; the notion is a persistent scream, ringing in her ears until she cannot hear the rushing water. Wash it! Why won’t you wash it?! I don’t want it! I want, I want, it’s the only thing I want—!

The sparrow is unobliging, and Qiūhuā wants to cry, but her eyes are dry and her throat is stuck and her face is lax. “Don’t be so needy and appreciate what you get.” “Very good. I’m glad you’re not scared of water. Here, turn around, honey, let me wash your hair and your back.” She turns, obligingly; soap runs down her back, through her hair, thoroughly lathered and coated in the sweet-smelling shampoo. It smells like nectar; she wants to drink it in.

After the shower is turned off, she is carefully dried off with a towel and dressed in undergarments and a light blue gown. Sitting at one of the desks in the bedroom, she permits her hair to be treated with a blow-drier and brushed.

The prongs do not tear her skin; the touch is gentle enough to warrant shudders, a foreign feeling. Motherly? “But is it hatred or love, a dog or a tiger, behind that handle?”

On the other hand, the crane has approached her as well, kneeling by her shoulder. She stares blankly down as her bandages are unraveled, carnations taking their place, bursting from her skin like parasites, freshly hatched and departing from their cuterebra-infested host. Are those red petals, impurities among the white? “There, there.” Her vision blurs. Who exactly is removing the gauze? “You’re a brave girl, aren’t you? Even if you can’t talk, I can tell. Only eighteen, yet you’re this calm even with this. “What did you do to deserve that kindness?”

Despite him, the crane’s voice is soft, bearing a milkier flavor than the sparrow’s. The flowers are going black on the floor, under the table; Qiūhuā decides to stare at those instead, until her hair is done and she is taken to her feet. She slips them into beige flats. “You must look so cute with flowers in your hair.” Not if they’re chrysanthemums, Poppy. Poppy. There, she named one.

Will she be happy, now? “There you go! We’ll try the mirror again after you’ve eaten a bit and taken a tour of the home.”

Home. The word does not fully register in her head; not yet. What is home?

Is it a hospital, or a house, or a cell? Does it really matter? The crane does not answer, but rather leads her quietly out the door. Please tell me, where am I? “Please don’t send me away! I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll be okay! I’m still doing okay in school… right..?”

A child’s voice rings in her skull, rings until it hurts, like a ruin of a concert hall.

The hallway outside bears beige wallpaper and carpeted flooring, the lights like golden orbs overhead. It’s no wonder the plants are growing so well, cast in direct, burning sunshine; the sunflowers are facing the ceiling, red-slick teeth in black jaws straining to eat the bulbs. The burgundy roses, feisty as they are, have also laid traps of thorns across the floor; there are small bodies within, mice and rabbits. Qiūhuā makes sure to navigate over and around them as the birds lead her, one right turn and straight ahead. They run into nobody, nor do they hear voices until the end.

Qiūhuā enters a funeral parlor; the nurses enter a dining room. Within the cozy space with its creamer-beige walls, she sees a stretch of tables, each one bearing a number of large, unstained chrysanthemums. The petals are silky, cast in the vivid sunlight of the many large windows on one of the walls; that sky is blue beyond the glass, beyond the fence and the trees, and she cannot help but feel surprised.

Upon entry, she realizes that the chrysanthemums—arranged so haphazardly that they must be for a poor man—bear the bodies of humans. She stares; why not? There are people sitting and walking and talking with flowers for heads, or flowers with arms and legs striding about; which would be less strange? “Staring could be considered rude. What if they get mad at you and attack you?” Alarmed, she looks up at the crane, then the sparrow; neither seem concerned. In fact, they are more concerned about her; two pairs of beady, black eyes twist to her, chains in a bubble, estranged from the hum of those unintelligent, foreign voices.

“Qiūhuā? Are you okay?” Fingers brush against her back; she must be a cat, stroked so by feathers. “I know there’s a lot of people here, but nobody’s going to hurt you, okay? We’ll help you get yourself some breakfast from the kitchen. It’s a bit late, but not late enough for service to end.” The crane’s voice is soothing, like water tearing over the impure granulation of kidney-colored stones; Qiūhuā accepts it as she is taken through the arch, through the veil into the foggy din. “Crazy, you’re crazy.” You really think so?

She soon discovers that, as the crane promised, it is a self-serve breakfast selection she’s been placed before, a kitchen repurposed, the walls reflecting photographs behind them, her mother’s home-cooking. Eating at funerals must be allowed here… Buddha’s delight is for the dead, but maybe waffles will do this time..? The birds fill up her plate while she’s not looking, and she’s led back to an empty table by the window once it’s filled with their selection. I guess I will have to settle.

“It’s like they’re feeding you, the masters and their designer pet.”

The light casts her in a platinum hymn, the table nearly dazzling; the birds’ feathers glow like angels’. I’m no longer a minor, right? So why don’t I get a say?

The sparrow sits to her right; the crane across from her. They don’t reply.

Under their silent, expectant gazes, she inwardly sighs and slowly eats, cutting up the waffle with her spoon and fork and slipping the little pieces into her mouth. If she lets her lips open too far, the flowers will come out; what a shameful sight that would be, indeed. “Don’t be gross in public, now.”

“You must be a bit shocked, still, huh?” The sparrow speaks; Qiūhuā keeps her beak in her peripheral as she continues to eat. The shadows and distortion of the window make her feel underwater; drowning. “A lot has happened in the last few days. Getting sent to the hospital, then here, then blacking out, and now seeing all these other patients only an hour after waking up… poor darling.”

Patients… Qiūhuā does her best to think, to properly contemplate over the muttering man. Are the flowers the “patients?” How can plants be patient? There are shy ones and mean ones but never so virtuous. Wish I could be a plant, too. “If you were a plant, you’d be too easy to cut down.” “Why aren’t you like everyone else’s parents?” It’s never long before the voices talk over her, again, both inside and

out; perhaps that is their will, what she is meant to fight. Then I’ll do my best.

“You’ll fail, like you always do.”

“You’re taking it like a champ, though, aren’t you, Qiūhuā?” It’s for the better; the crane’s voice floods her mindscape again, anyway. “Took a shower, got your bandages changed, and now you’re eating properly. Not a single bit of fuss. I’m a bit surprised, considering her circumstances and diagnosis.” The last phrase is an aside to the sparrow; Qiūhuā doesn’t get it, anyway. It’s all noise to her; isn’t it standard to not fight when given orders?

“Stupid girl! Why can’t you do as I say?”

The tone is familiar, yet it rings more distantly, like a tea-stained polaroid.

Qiūhuā slips the thought away into the recesses of her brain. “You’re done?”

She’s brought back to the present. “Here, something to finish up. Take it down with this orange juice.”

And from her feathers, the sparrow procures a plastic bottle. Looks like a firefly jar. Are there bugs within? The sound of the cap being opened cuts into her throat; she stares at it as a pink pill is extracted from it. A glass of juice is set before her, as is the pill on the outline of an open palm. “Here, take this. It’s to help with your symptoms, okay?”

Symptoms? What symptoms? “Maybe you’re just really sick and can’t talk because you’d die coughing if you did.” She does not wish to try, and instead downs the pill with the juice, unwaveringly. If she shakes too much, it will not slide smoothly; how bitter it is, the aftertaste on her tongue, a streak of chalk.

“Keep it down.” She does.

The birds seem, fortunately, happy with this. “Good job! You took it like a champ.” The sparrow rises, a shadowless figure upon the pristine tabletop.

“Let’s continue our little walk, then, shall we?”

The birds take her around the “home,” through the yellowed hallways and wooden doors; the roses are blooming in every nook and corner, overtaking the natural panels with their spines. She’s shown a recreational room, filled with art supplies, books, a TV, the likes of modern enjoyments. She sees their colors, artificial in nature; they contrast the browning petals all around them. “The home isn’t that bad, don’t you think? It’s nothing like the facilities you read about.” Indeed, it feels too good to be true.

The others do not matter much to her; there is a small gym, a greenhouse, a salon, a visitors’ area. An hour must have gone by before she is led to what looks like a waiting room with a couch and coffee table. There is another door at its other end; somebody knocks from the other side with a word of, “Come in,” and Qiūhuā is pushed through.

An old, white bird, a stork, sits in a sofa, one so overgrown it appears to be made of herbs and lavender entrails. Her body is covered in thick, white lilies, ones drooping with the weight of their own pollen. They are scentless, merely ugly without a single positive purpose. Qiūhuā sits in the couch across from her, fixing her eyes upon the drifting dust. The sparrow and crane stand behind her, like prison wardens; Want to run away. “They know what they’re doing, and you don’t, so just let them take over.”

“Chohwa Yang, is that correct?” No, it’s Qiū, not Cho. A pause, maybe two; the stork gazes expectantly at her, and Qiūhuā likewise back. Huh? Can’t you hear me? My thoughts, all the things you birds know—surely you are hearing me, even now. Her tongue dries to sandpaper in her mouth. Hear me. Come on. Reply to me, please!

“She’s non-verbal,” the crane amends from her side. The stork seems to consider this before nodding, the sound of pen on paper tickling the air, and is that a clipboard protruding like a knife’s hilt from her chest? Stop… please… stop talking over me..! “She hasn’t spoken since she was admitted. Her history had nothing of the sorts.” No, no, no, you’ve got it all wrong! Why won’t you listen to me?!

She wants to kick her feet and break something, but there is nothing to break in this room but herself, so she sits as still as she can. “Stop. Stop misbehaving and just listen.” I don’t wanna..! “You’ll have to be locked in time-out, then.” “Yeah, Qiūhuā, fight back!” I can’t, I’m scared.

“I see.” The stork’s eyes are fixed on her again. What? What do you want?

“Eighteen, only child. No family in the states other than her parents. According to what her mother told us and the psychologist records, she has schizophrenia, genetically linked to her mother’s side.” Her long neck twists, uncomfortably so.

How do you know all that? I never told you. “She’s on meds from the hospital… We will try psychotherapy with her and see how she does. Sound good?” No, no it doesn’t.

In a haze, unable to do anything as her voice is snatched from her by the throat, she is taken back to her room and left in solitude upon her bed. “Rest well, okay? You need to get your body back in shape after that hospitalization.”

Why must I subject myself to being led around? “You’ll be punished. Just smile, don’t fight.” A meaningless set of parting words; the door shuts and the room falls into a false silence.

Silence? Even now, her brain cannot settle; why is that so? “Failure, failure, you failed.” Failed what? Hey, how come even you are uncooperative? Has she folded a dumpling wrong, or lost a point on a test, or fallen asleep in class? The images flutter by, fleeting as paintings upon the undersides of butterfly wings. A living room wrought in pink peonies; a bathroom with wilted orange petals bleeding out the showerhead; a Lysol-scented desk, the smooth plastic tasting like iron on her tongue. In her ear, a small child weeps.

She does not know their meanings, only that they make her chest ache with the chronic wound of an ancient knife.

a lovely pomegranate spills out my wrists Days crawl by like years, each one not quite the same as the last; Qiūhuā learns the routine, the customs between the collections of snapshots, little moments she grasps onto like teddy bear arms.

Upon awakening, she is cleansed by the sparrow, and her hair is lovingly dried and done up. On occasion—like today—the crane comes by to see her, perhaps helping with her bandages, laying the fresh gauze upon those redstriped carnations to stifle out their growth. But they are so beautiful. Red is the color of love, she thinks each time, and yet there is no response to them, and she helplessly watches them disappear forever more. “But you’re sick, and they want to help.”

It’s a subjective thing, whether or not her childish requests are answered; sometimes, like in the kitchen, her order is thought of so vividly that the plate is filled and handed to her just how she likes, her choice of their meager options fulfilled. It’s a start, she thinks, eating her bacon and eggs; Crane, what is your name? How do you know mine? Maybe you are God, not an angel. “Offer her incense and duck eggs, or else she might curse you.”

“Surely, she resents you, you ungrateful brat.” “Mama, when do the fireworks start?” The voices are familial, too close to her to ignore. A man’s spits

abuse in her ear, snatching her by the collar; a child’s utters innocent little phrases, crying and laughing and curious. She listens to them, humors them; but sometimes, when her head starts to hurt, she wonders if they’re demon-speak.

Too much yin.

After breakfast and her pill, so bitter as dried herbs, is the recreational room, where she seldom does much with the dry brushes set before her; then a lunch, if she feels like it, then free time until she is sent to the stork and her clipboard. She speaks to her; Qiūhuā cannot speak back, but she listens, and accepts, and she nods. They called it psychotherapy, and yet she doesn’t know which part is psychotic and which is therapeutic. She does not question it; she never will. Obedience: her only solution to her dealt cards, no matter how bitter, how unfair, how frustrating. Feel like I’m floating, the message in the bottle floating across the ocean.

After that, she’s sent back to her room, left to contemplate her thoughts alone and watch the gardens develop. Seasons seem to be passing in seconds over her head, the kaleidoscope epileptic, petals dripping like tar from the ceiling; she tries to catch them, sometimes, but they always seem to disappear just in time to avoid her touch. Is it so dirty?

“It’s you who is filthy, so dirty you kill the flowers.” And he replies, a

prompt conversation. She wishes to ask him his name, yet the thought of doing so scares her. “As it should. Old men should not be trusted.”

And it repeats, day after day; she is permitted to fill her own plate soon, and she has tried to paint once or twice, running the brush against the edges of the violet mums before watching them vanish. “So pretty…” The sparrow is never quite impressed by such work, though; “Oh, honey, why don’t you try using paint with your brushes?” is what she always says. Qiūhuā doesn’t get it; why add more color to muddy the texture where such wonderful images are already there? “You have no sense of aesthetics. Listen to her.”

One day, perhaps two weeks after her inception, she finds herself at breakfast with only the sparrow. The crane is gone today, and Qiūhuā had expected to stare at the sun-glossed back of her empty chair for forever, only for an abrupt blossom to take its place.

“Hi! Can I sit here?” There is a chrysanthemum, pale like a dying star, standing over the table. She’s holding a plate, too; when she moves, a face flickers into view behind the distortion. Is that a smile, or a delusion? “She seems very nice.” “Be wary of her.”

“Of course, honey!” The sparrow is awfully cheerful to see the stranger; Qiūhuā stiffens, fixing her eyes to the girl’s flower head as she offers a “Thank you” and sits down. The petals seem to be fluttering, like feathers, like wings.

“What did you do to deserve such a presence?” He’s right, what did I? Can’t eat.

Need to hibernate, get a tooth extraction soon.

“Hi! How are you?” she prompts, and Qiūhuā is quite delighted by such a rare invitation. Well. I am happy, if that’s allowed in funeral parlors now. How are your grandparents? Were their caskets let open to air? So she’s surprised when the figure doesn’t answer, instead gazing expectantly at her. Were they?

“She’s non-verbal,” the sparrow suddenly chimes in, and a familiar pang of irritation twitches in her stomach. Stop that, stop talking for me. Beautiful person, don’t listen to her; I’m speaking now, aren’t I? “Yeah, you’re speaking! Of course you are!” “But she’s able to understand everything you’re saying. She just hasn’t had a real person talk to her in a while, now.” Real? What part of Poppy, of the man, of the child and the girl, isn’t real?

“Oh, I got it!” This girl—it seems to be a girl—falls for it, much to Qiūhuā’s dismay; she nods, considers the sparrow’s words, and abruptly turns back to Qiūhuā, the flower shuddering with the motion. A petal falls, long and curved and pearly. Why did you listen to her instead of me? But I can’t help but forgive you. “It’s toxic if she doesn’t listen, you know?” Oh, shut up. “What’s your name?

I’ve only seen you around for a short bit, so I figure you’re still new.”

Qiūhuā’s my name. What’s yours? “Her name is Choha—Choha? I think I’m butchering it. It’s a pretty Chinese name,” the sparrow says over her, and to that she feels a vague dizziness, a twinge of frustration. Qiūhuā, it’s Qiūhuā, with the right inflection, knives on the edges— “Oh, don’t worry about it! I’ll just go ask Nurse Hè real quick. I studied Mandarin in school, so I think I can get it.” Hm? I’m surprised. “She cares to say it right? Sigh of relief.” And then she’s gone, a rustle of white petals dying on a sweet after-breeze. “Is that your perfume? It stained my pillow.” Across the room, a crane setting incense chrysanthemums watches her; is this a marshland or a wake? Cranes for longevity, a thousand for a shooting star. Do they fall on broken wings through the atmosphere? “ “Nice girl, isn’t she?” The sparrow speaks, this time regarding Qiūhuā.

“Sorry about your name, honey. I’ve got to start trying harder with that inflection.” God, you’re finally getting it. Good. “Vile foreigners.” Relieved, Qiūhuā reaches out and intends to touch the bird’s feathers, only for a cool metal hoop to brush her fingertips instead. Hm? Chains or an earring? Why can’t I see it? “Aha, are you trying to say thank you? You’re sweet in your own way.”

“Qiūhuā!” She’s startled by the sound of her name being called, with as close an inflection as humanly possible for such a foreign voice. “What a beautiful tone!” It’s that lovely girl, returning to her table in a rush of cinnamon; between the veins of white, she sees red and gold ringing her eyes. Makeup, or

feathers? I never saw a point in it, nor anything else. “Qiūhuā, that’s your name, isn’t it?” Nod. Have to nod yes. I’m impressed. She thinks her head is moving; is it? She’ll never know.

“It’s such a pretty name!” the girl goes on to say. A petal falls away; Qiūhuā sees definitive, golden feathers, plumes with peacock eyes. “Oh, and I’m Persephone. It’s nice to meet you!” A hand, very much human, is extended over the table, fingernails a pastel pink that catch in the sun like rose pearls; Qiūhuā stares for a moment, head tilted in jumbled thought, before picking up her own and setting the fingers upon her palm. Persephone seems delighted by such acceptance, her grasp gentle as she shakes and lets go. “So kind.” “She’s weak. Throw her away now, before it’s too late, you undeserving freak.”

“I’ve been seeing you around the community home for a few weeks now,” she says. “She doesn’t seem like a princess of hell.” “You seem nice, even if you can’t speak! You’re nicer than a lot of the noisy ones, anyway. I would bet that they bother you.” Noisy? I hear barely a murmur, now and always. “Are you going to eat? It’s important to keep your energy up and take care of yourself. Or at least, that’s what Mrs. Varens says. I don’t like thinking much about it, at all.”

Qiūhuā picks at her waffle. Blueberry, this one’s supposed to be. They say Persephone lives on six pomegranate seeds for six months. Are you the same? “Maybe she’s already dead.” There’s something about her that piques Qiūhuā’s interest; she’s never felt this way before, never such a pure, sun-miraged image. And yet, she cannot dig up the memory that states otherwise, either. Tell me, can you remember for me? Do you feel the same? Tell me. I want to know. “I want to know! Tell me, please, I don’t get it!”

Another petal falls away; there lies the oddly human eye, coffee-brown, set upon an avian head, angular with sleekly feathered angles. Red and gold; she must be made of kite paper, of silk screens. Captivating. Qiūhuā gazes blankly at her, eager to see the full image. She is beautiful. “You should be dead rather than talking to her.”

Persephone laughs, a little chuckle; it sounds like crystal bluebells weeping white tears. Qiūhuā does not find it wholly unpleasant, either. “Your stare is crazy intense.” “Oh no, you must be staring. She doesn’t like it.” There’s a lilt in her lovely voice, and Qiūhuā identifies its downwards shift. Is she annoyed? I feel

the lash of a tiger’s rough tongue. “You should be beaten for that, you brat. Be grateful you aren’t.” Quickly, she drops her gaze to the black swirls on the table; almost as abruptly, Persephone’s mood seems to shift as well. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I don’t mind it at all.” A blink, a cautious peer up; there is no trap in her eyes, so honey-warm, the golden tint of vegetable oil in an angular bottle of glass. She is familiar, in an odd way; familial, maybe?

Qiūhuā looks up and meets her gaze again, blinking twice in recognition.

The figure before her is a small, slight, red-backed phoenix with white chrysanthemums fading away like blush, wreathed in her feathers and wilting by the heartbeat; she seems so genuine, despite the point of her dark beak ready to draw blood, despite the morbidity of her eye, veined at the edges, so awfully white and wide and personal upon the small avian face. Is this what a friend is meant to be? The concept is in the same realm as mother in Qiūhuā’s broken little head, so soft a word yet so cold. It is not yet stained by time’s cuts, nor is it broken in by its wear and tear. It simply exists, encased in a bubble that she cannot pop and ensnared by a halo. “Hey, aren’t we your friends too?”

Somehow, it doesn’t feel that way, Poppy.

Pop. Pop. Sunlight is so pretty when it reflects off of heavenly things. The dust motes seem to bounce off of her perfect body and feathers, a little spark, a tiny seed blooming where they touched; what will they bloom into, one day?

Qiūhuā considers it as she returns to eating, finishing her waffle with Persephone. When Qiūhuā takes a pink pill, she takes a white one; there, we match.

“So she’s just as messed up in the head as you.”

After Qiūhuā finishes her food and returns the empty tray, Persephone accompanies her and the sparrow to the recreational room. It feels odd, walking at the side of a long-legged phoenix, her proportions more like a secretary bird’s than anything. Her long, multi-colored tail drags on the floor and collects dust.

How strange; she’s pretty and charming, and yet, her ability to tolerate, to interact with Qiūhuā even for an hour is as uncommon as Qiūhuā singing. Why do you humor me so? There is never an answer to this question; she figures it’s okay, for once. It would be vain to say anything on the subject.

Once among the vast shelves of supplies, Persephone takes her by the clammy hand, her feathery touch on a wrist thin as a rose’s bones, and leads her

to the paints. “What better a way to get to know someone than making art with them?” she prompts, sitting Qiūhuā down in front of an empty canvas. “I’ve always loved painting—acrylic and watercolors especially. Let’s do it together!”

“Together?”

I’ve tried it before. Fun. Very pretty images appear. As usual, she picks up her brush and begins to run it along the edges of the yellow rose bleeding on the canvas, until Persephone reaches out, grasps Qiūhuā’s hand and the brush within it, and dips the tip into a swatch of paint on her palette, a monochromatic disc with a select few Qiūhuā watches the brush’s bristles take up the color, a navy blue, like a hungry towel soaking up a weeping wound.

“Control freak.” Hey, it’ll ruin the rose. I can take care of myself, you know? Yet, deferring to her feels far too natural for her own good. “Sorry, I don’t know if you want navy blue. There’s an empty palette and some paints on the table next to you, if you decide you want to use them later. You could also wipe the paint off on a napkin.”

No bother, love. I can make do. Can’t let you down or fight it. “Lay down like a dog. Now.” Qiūhuā runs the blue across the silhouette of a flower blooming at the bottom left of the canvas, and the image abruptly dies; in its place is the painted outline, glistening like oil in the white lights ensnaring the room. Not… disgusting.

“It’s ugly, you useless girl. Eighteen, and all you can make is a baby’s scribble? You’re disgusting.” “It’s okay as long as you’re having fun.”

It’s consolatory, watching Persephone get to work on her own painting at her side. She can’t be sure of what it is, yet; but she’s using black and white, a thoroughly colorless figure. Why? There are many colors around us. Here.

Turning around, Qiūhuā loads all of the colors that are available onto her palette and begins tracing more of the flowers. It becomes a peaceful, mindless activity; for the first time in perhaps weeks, her brain silences itself as she listens to the sound of a brush on canvas. She’s not even looking at her own art, her hand moving on autopilot; she’s staring at Persephone again, at the way her crest glitters, the vivid blue upon her wings, so wide when open that they must blot out the sun. Her eyes are narrowed as she considers and reconsiders her painting, over and over. She swaps brushes, rinses them in a cup of water, and restocks her paints; she gets stains on her feathers, like black oil on the down of

baby ducklings, but she merely shrugs and begins to wipe all of her brushes on her breast instead of using the paper towels. She is a pure existence, Qiūhuā thinks; beautiful. So beautiful.

Hey, tell me… why are you even here? “What did you do to deserve her? She will surely desert you.”

Persephone is a spirit torn out of the heavens and thrown into a cesspool of sickness, choosing to stay at the side of a terminal patient, one self-diagnosed with cancer and dementia and every disease imaginable—because why else would Qiūhuā feel this way, think this way, act this way? She knows the sparrow is across the room, staring at her back; she knows the crane is drifting in and out, overlooking her dominion, the home. She knows she is surrounded by people with flowers for heads; she knows she cannot remember a thing of her past. “…look! I drew a fish!”

“Oh, wow, Qiūqiū, that’s a beautiful goldfish. What pretty red and white!”

“Yay! I’m going to draw it a friend next, then!”

I feel sick.

Why does that voice sound so overdone to my ear?

“Hm? Qiūhuā?” Blink. Blink again. She’s back in the recreational room, and her ears are ringing, a static buzz like a broken TV (broken by a thrown vase of blue and white) filling the room. “Messed up, I messed up, I know, I’m sorry..!” She looks up, sees Persephone with a brush suspended before her, her twisted head and its concerned gaze of honey-rose bearing an intensity nearly frightening; she turns away, only for a picture beyond her comprehension to greet her.

Her own canvas, what a rebellious gesture—her eyes dart across it, once, thrice, a hundred times, but it doesn’t sink in beyond the skin level, the nauseous state. The paint, so clumsily slathered on, depicts a small child and a taller woman in a dress walking through a meadow. Neither figures have any features; the child is a white silhouette, the woman a hot pink one, but she can

sense they are meant to be happy, somehow. Around their feet are a spotted daze of rainbow colors, mixing to turn brown at their boundaries; wildflowers, half-wilted. A blue sky lies behind them.

And yet, they are trapped in the center of the canvas, for a mass of navy blue and black rings them and overflows all the way to the corners of the cloth.

Eyes, outlined in red and white, fill the void, each one staring down at the child with an incomprehensible loathing—Judgement Day. “Awful girl, awful girl, awful child, you should never have been born.”

“Every morning I wake up and hope you died in your sleep.”

“How are you still living, you failure?”

“Qiūhuā! Qiūhuā! Qiūhuā, listen to me! Listen!” “Calm down, calm down, calm down, need to calm down.” She does not know what happens

next, only that there is a lapse, a rush, a period of blurriness and unconscious waking. Through the static and the voices, there is a clatter, followed by a second, louder crash. “Rip it out. Rip it out. Rip it out. You’re impure, filled with imperfections and rot.” “Qiūhuā! Wait, stop!” The wind recedes, the voices cease as if choked out by leads; someone is calling her name above the rest, and she is sitting on the floor, her legs splayed out under her. How is that so?

“Don’t do that!”

Do what? Who’s in command? Her vision returns: she sees red, red, red, red and black and there are scrunched up bandages in her hand and an eerie lack of pressure on her feverish arm, ripped thread and rose petals cast across the tile, a mass of worms underneath her. Oh. How did I get here? Is this Persephone’s underworld, a place of pretty things all for ourselves? “Wow! It’s so pretty!” “Oh dear God, what a mess.”

She plucks one petal up, its touch so warm and soft against her fingers; she lifts it and stares. It slides; she catches it again as it falls. How perfect, this worldly thing.

“Choha! What have you done, honey?” She is brought back to her external awareness abruptly, much too sharply; the sparrow is standing above her, her feathers hooking onto the colorless lights above. The chrysanthemums are all staring at her, too, their white faces turned to her; anemic sunflowers,

drained of life. Looking away, to the armful of rose petals surrounding her, she thinks she can see string. Did I drop a bouquet, and now it’s fallen apart? I’m sorry, ma’am, I’ll clean it up right away. “Have to be quick now, before he comes home.”

But as she stands, calmly, slowly, never once breaking eye contact with the bird, she realizes the petals are coming from her.

They’re gushing, fluttering out of her arm, the porcelain vase, long and thin. She stares down at it, presently; she thinks they are beautiful, and yet she is shaking, her insides turning themselves inside-out. Briefly, she feels the sting of flesh. “You deserve it, you deserve nothing.” “…Qiūhuā?” There is a soft voice, shaky, behind her; she looks over her shoulder, and it’s Persephone. Her figure has lost its regality, her wings raised to her shoulders, her head tucked in, that lovely tail limp on the floor and drenched in blackened paint. Her eyes are lined with tears; those don’t suit you. “Stop crying.” Qiūhuā lifts her arm, the one weeping petals, and tries to brush them away; much to her surprise, Persephone jerks back like an injured animal. She cries out, “Get away from me!” before catching herself; “No! Wait, no, I’m sorry, it’s just—” A painful pause. Qiūhuā tips her head, wondering. “…don’t get your blood on me, please…”

There’s a crash somewhere behind her, and at once, Qiūhuā feels herself hit the red-slick floor.

When she’s next aware, she’s sitting in the waiting room of an old, white stork, and there is a chrysanthemum sitting over the coffee table, staring at her.

She stares back. She doesn’t know of anything else to do. “Isn’t it rude to stare?” The two do not move until the door opens and Qiūhuā’s name is called, mind the wrong inflections.

“So, Chohwa. I heard you had quite the episode this morning.” A little white flower pushes through her knee. Qiūhuā tugs at her sleeve, irked. “Hey, Qiūhuā, what’s she talking about?” …what did I do this morning? “Maybe you aren’t fully aware of it, so I’ll give you a rundown, okay?” Can’t decline anyway.

“Nurse Melody watched it all happen. You were painting, perfectly calmly, with Miss Persephone, when you suddenly stopped moving. You did not respond when she said your name, and you began to shake. You dropped your palette and brush and began to try to rip your own bandages off in what Nurse Melody described as a ‘frantic manner.’ Persephone could not stop you.”

There is familiarity in her words, in the memory. Qiūhuā scratches her head, trying to dig it out.

“When you succeeded in this, you also ripped your stitches out, which were nearly healed but quickly opened with how messy the removal was. Nurse Melody and Persephone both got up to try and stop you, so you began to try to run away, only to fall over your stool and collapse on the ground. When Nurse Melody spoke to you, however, you apparently ‘seemed calm’ as you stood up again. Following a brief altercation with Persephone, the medical team arrived and you were tranquillized to avoid resistance when you were taken to replace your stitches and clean you up.” At last, the stork looked up from her clipboard.

Her eyes are black beads; impenetrable. “Does this sound familiar?” …maybe. Even deer lie, sometimes, the roadkill. She sees an empty canvas, smells paint; there is a heavenly girl at her side, well done in makeup yet the most genuine she’s ever met. So no, yes it does, I suppose. She nods, or at least tries to; the stork is satisfied with this answer. “Try harder. Why won’t you look her in the eye?”

“Good, you remember a little. Then, do you think you have any answers to why this happened? Think it over, yourself, and identify the trigger of the incident. You were very calm until you seemed to have seen something. What was that object?”

Seen? Seam? I tore a seam out, once, and it was painless. She has no answers, no discernible phrase in her mind; she sees a meadow, a deer and its fawn at the center, at ease; the image is pure, a spread of pastels and spring. Persephone would like this. She would want to paint it. Where is she?

“Now that you know those things, will you do your best to avoid such an event happening again?”

Yes. “Qiūhuā is made and oiled to listen, after all. Sheep do not lie; they must stay soft and malleable.”

“Good. We’re done for today. Nurse Melody will be in to pick you up and take you to your room.” The stork rises and departs, as does Qiūhuā. Strange. I don’t remember a thing from this morning, spare for the pain, the static, the headache. She does her best to recall it, to recall the root of that deer polaroid, of the headache she’s quickly receiving. And yet, the shovel comes up empty. “Useless, worthless child.”

Surely they can’t be right. Even if I’m not ‘normal’… I can’t be crazy, either.

Maybe it’s time for Mama to come and pick me up.

children must be very weak, for orange flames are the coldest of all “Qiūhuā, honey, there’s a visitor for you today.”

Get up, get dressed. The crane and sparrow are here, a whole flock. There are black petals, anomalies in their blossoms. Want to pluck them. Want them to bleed like I did. She keeps thinking about it; she has for days, at least. Why can’t I remember?

“Like a vision behind a shower curtain. Why not burn in the water?” It brings her pain, and nothing else; she nearly passed out again, just that morning, sitting in bed trying to remember. What was it that had unhinged the door and let a singular memory, raw and red and still bloody, out?

In the present, she’s taken by the arm by the sparrow and led down the hall, despite the bruises on the walls, in a direction she does not recall. Where are we going? There is a hollow silence surrounding her, perhaps even worse than white noise. “I can’t see..!” Some of the chrysanthemums that walk by with their own white birds, they turn their heads to her, briefly, before looking away. Is she remembered for that morning she herself does not recall? How cruel. “You’re the cruel one, the strange child who can’t remember anything.”

The crane opens the door for them, and beyond is a little room filled with coffee tables and stuffed couches. The lights are warm and golden here, like candlelight, shining upon a figure so haunting and vividly out of place on the crimson carpet in the center of the floor.

There is a man-shaped mass of cancerous, orange flowers, petals of every shape and size, every single breed imaginable tainted by the tiger-pelt color.

They are wilting, sickened blooms, and every last one of their cores seem to twist and turn to her as the figure evidently sees her and begins to approach her.

“Qiūhuā, you look so thin. Have you not been eating? They should be serving you enough.”

“They should be serving you enough.” A blink, the echo of a gun with a

muffler. It’s a man, a familiar voice, so downward-turned in texture. A body has been given to one of the nameless voices. Qiūhuā’s grip on the sparrow’s arm tightens; she cannot drag her eyes away from the orange man, from where she believes his eyes should be. I know. I know this one. There is a frightening quiet

that nets Qiūhuā’s mind as she tries to think of why that is so, a quiet barricaded by the voices. It’s the same dilemma as the painted morning; why is she barred from knowing what she herself did? Is that so bad?

“Sir, please be kind to her. It’s been a rough few days.” That would be the crane, at her left. “Kind? Rough? What?” Call it rough, call it whatever. I’m fine, aren’t I? I don’t even know what I did, so don’t say it’s been rough.

“Rough? What sort of rough?” His voice, his voice itself is rough. “Rough like rock candy that’s sat for a year in the closet.” “Rough like the tongue of a big cat.” “Rough like the surface of a belt, the surface of a blanket.”

“She… She broke down and ripped out her stitches. The nurses got to her immediately and sewed her wounds back up. She’s been on high watch ever since.” Oh, I see. “Crazy girl, you should be locked up.”

“And still no talking? No response?” It’s not my fault I can’t talk. Don’t accuse me of laziness or stupidity.

“No talking.” “She says it like a command. Maybe she wants you to shut up.” That can’t be right, right? The crane pauses, as if hesitant to speak too freely with this man. As you should be. You’ll tell him all the wrong things if you keep going.

“She is responsive. She understands what we’re saying, and she can communicate in her own way with other patients.”

The man scoffs; a horrible sound, so judging and heavy that it instantly weighs like iron over Qiūhuā’s shoulders. Her stomach is churning, her legs shaking, palms sweating; why? She cannot place a name to his features, or his lack thereof. There is an emptiness where his title is, a book without its cover pages; no matter how morbid the contents, there is no indication of one person to curse for its publication. “She is just being stubborn. Qiūhuā, come here.

We’re going to have a little chat about this.”

Frustration boils in her stomach; it mixes with fear to produce acid, burning through her tender stomach walls and surely eating her up from the inside-out. Her face is slack, and yet she can feel her hands shaking, her head spinning. I’m not, I’m not being stubborn! I can’t speak! Can’t you see how hard I’m trying, even now?! “Please be kind, sir. She’s on the high watch,” the sparrow suddenly

protests, surprisingly, at her side. “She needs to have one of us with her at all times.”

“So what? She’s my daughter! I will do what I want with her.” At once, the recognition shoots through Qiūhuā’s chest like an arrowhead through the back, and her pulse practically bounds to twice the speed in a mere second, her mind tumbling from shaky indignation to paralyzing fear, tipping overboard. Oh. He is… the father. Father. What a sickening feeling the word brings her. “For once, you’re right, moron.”

I see the meadow, now, the eyes around the edge lined in orange.

At once, as his hand wraps around her wrist as if it were the handle of a knife, she tears away from both him and the sparrow and runs for the door.

Escape. Escape. I feel sick, smelling you, looking at you, feeling you. “But your father is always with you, isn’t he? Even now, I’m here. You can’t run from me.” That voice, of course; that man was always him, and it makes her stomach wrench and tighten. Is it fear or disgust, or both? I can try, I can try, I can try. “You know you’re going to fail in the end.”

“Qiūhuā! Wait!” The two birds run after her and the orange man fades from view behind them, but the illness does not leave her gut, instead crowding her from the roof, her boiling insides seemingly wishing to exit her body through her mouth.

Which it does, only rather later, once she’s been escorted back to her room. The bathroom is a dizzying glaze of golden light and beige tiles made of plastic, and the flowers taste bitter as they leave her mouth, sticking to her tongue as she leans back, rises, flushes the toilet, and attempts to scrape the dirt from her throat in the sink. It does not give; she scrubs harder yet until she retches, yet it still fails.

“Rip it out. Rip it out. Disgusting, you make me sick.”

So that’s it. I tore out the stitches because he told me to.

The father in her head tells her once again that she is filthy, and she washes her throat out as such.

It must have been the same day, only hours later, when Qiūhuā sees Persephone again, for the first time after that dreadful morning.

Qiūhuā had been permitted a visit to the break room, with its vending machines operable by little white “resident coins,” as distributed by the birds and procured from their own feathers. A prison chamber, where the coins permit for the release of those awful, groaning spirits; visiting it is a form of torture, for Qiūhuā, at least. But it’s here that she catches sight of a crimson flutter.

Now, who wouldn’t remember such a lovely bird? Her tail splays across the ground like silk, the peahen eyes all fixed upon her by entry. Her feathers are a glossy maroon under the lights, the back of her head a lustrous ruby. Yellow orchids creep up her spine; they appear ceramic to the untrained eye. She turns, a little too abruptly, when Qiūhuā approaches her, and at once those shadowed eyes fix upon her, the irises lighting up with honey-gold and illuminating the room. “Is she happy to see you, or horrified?”

“Qiūhuā!” It seems she has been caught off-guard. Her mute companion tilts her head, questioning. “Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re back!”

And she launches herself onto her with a hug, her wings—arms?— wrapped tight around Qiūhuā’s narrow frame, more cool bone than anything at this point. She’s… made of bone, too. Just like me. A skeleton more brittle than mine. “If your arms clashed, you’d break hers first.” Must never take off my bandages, then, the cushioning, just for her. “But Persephone is strong!” Maybe so. “I’m so sorry about that morning, it was all my fault, and I shouldn’t have made you do anything that would be associated with trauma, I’m sorry—!”

“No, it’s my fault..!” Not Persephone’s fault, and not the child’s. The orange man’s.

At the mere thought of him, Qiūhuā’s body tenses, and Persephone swiftly pulls back. There are tears in her eyes, and her colors seem faded, as if she were meant to be housed in an ancient painting. Ghostly. Haunted. “I’m… I’m sorry, Qiūhuā. That’s all I can think of to say—wait, come with me. I have something to give you, as an apology.”

She takes Qiūhuā by the wrist, just the way her father had intended, only Persephone’s touch is soft, warm to the core, comforted by the knowledge that it is heaven’s guide she follows. She’s led like a child, with care, to the

dormitories; she knows the sparrow is following her, but she does not mind much. Take me away. Lead me, and I will follow. “Typical sheep, incapable of independence.” Isn’t that what you want, dad?

Persephone’s room is in the same hall as Qiūhuā’s, only at the other end.

She’s told to wait outside for but a second; peering inside from the doorway, she can see the array of items scattered across the vanity, the mess of a bed. “Don’t wanna clean, don’t wanna work anymore.” Persephone returns with a thick book in hand, one with a shiny hardcover depicting a candy-pink peony on the front.

“A gift? She got you a gift! Isn’t she sweet?” “Here! I got it from the bookstore. It’s a gardening book about different species of flowers and plants and stuff—I just thought you’d like it, ‘cause they already let me outside and stuff, but you haven’t, so maybe you miss it… do you?”

And she looks up and meets Qiūhuā’s gaze; the latter tries to smile, tries to say ‘Yes, that’s beautiful, why did you get it for me?’ only for nothing to leave her parched mouth. Please don’t misunderstand. Yet Persephone seems to get it, much to Qiūhuā’s euphoria, you clever girl, Persephone. Perhaps she is God, having usurped the dragons; perhaps she can read her mind. “Are you saying yes? I’m glad! You look so much better now, compared to just a few days ago—you’re amazing, recovering so fast. I wish I could do that.”

You are so kind, Persephone. I can’t get you the way you get me. Not birds of the same feather, not flowers of the same blooming season. Why are you still here? …and why did you give me this, this treasure from the Underworld?