The Bull

There was a raging torrent of hatred painted in a vivid red sunset. The bull raised its head and sung its unearthly sound. He stood there absolutely carved in half with the agony of his loss. His gentle Tulip. Forever gone to the dust. There were trees. Little glimmers of faith that bloom from the ebony coals of her lifeless corpse. Forever their lights are intertwined in a black universal night. The soothing chill of evening settling in, the hairs on his neck bristled with the cold. He momentarily snaps out of his grief driven delirium, to go inside and put on his jacket.

Peter Meadows was a simple estate owner in Scoresby, languishing over the death of his wife Tulip. Their relationship had waned toward the end, but he loved her deeply in a way that could not be easily expressed. Now she was dead and with her went his heart and his life. He felt empty. He felt like he had failed her, but he would not rest until he knew exactly why and how it happened. No one would tell him anything. The anger seethed in him with each growing day. He was a mess. He lingered by the newly crested logs in the fireplace that were ablaze with warmth and becoming. He poked at the flames mindlessly as he swirled his drink thoughtfully. Finally, he had enough of his own self-pity, and he tossed the glass and its contents savagely into the fire then turned on one heel and walked out.

Peter walked hurriedly to his small, bland office, he began to search the dusty shelves for files and papers. The office was piled high with medical files, postmortem reports, police reports and anything else he thought was useful. He had spent years acquiring all of this vast pile of information about his wife and her final moments. No one person retold the same story twice. The information was conflicting, it was a raging beast within him. He shadow boxed with the idea that his wife had possibly cheated on him, it was incredulous but there was a trace of evidence that she had been lured by some bronzed bodied lothario who possibly drove a midnight blue Porsche. No way could any of this be true, he thought. Tomorrow he would begin his journey to retrace her steps through the streets of Melbourne to the place where they found her at Melbourne Cemetery in an open grave. She was tossed in like a used plastic bag, facing the weather and the rain. Her neck was broken. There was a scrawled note with the following verse on it, laying pinned to Tulip’s pink cardigan:

Hugging the dirt is pretty Tulip Meadows,

Neck broken, standing in the shadows.

Waif of danger lingers near,

Hatred follows then there is fear.

The next day loomed like a prowling cat standing behind a mouse. Peter knew he had been up all night; he was tired and drunk. His breath stunk of whiskey and his clothes were rumpled and worn in places. He got behind the wheel of his car, he shuffled food wrappers and drink containers out of the way so that he could operate the foot mechanisms. His key turned in the lock, the engine did not fire so he turned the key again. Without warning the car exploded, Peter was moving in the flames trying to get out of a burning car but unable to escape, he was engulfed in flames. The radio had been playing “The Green, Green, Grass of Home”, the last thing he saw was Tulip walking toward him to take his hand.