50 years is a long time, holiday house sat quietly on that beach, free of women with madness, their men and bad habits- and then it was bought by me. 

The wildflowers are an anomaly, they say. The people change, the town’s murmurs wash over the beach in ambitious waves as they come and go. 

The wildflowers stem from the foot of the holiday house, where Rebekah lies, hesitantly at first, the eager sapling not knowing what could’ve been. The town’s people marvel over the wildflowers, the very existence a wonder that stands on the barren land. With encouragement it stands tall; until the town is unable to mask the scorn in their voice, reeking of contempt for the thorns the flowers have now grown. They blame the maddest woman this town has ever seen, the last act to be remembered by. 

The wildflowers find comfort in the holiday house that doesn’t yield, reaching up to windows, caressing its frame, lest her thorns hurt the house. The holiday house hums of an aching desire to be called home. The town tosses their heads during the day in disdain for the flowers and the house that are inseparable. But during the night, the holiday house murmurs secrets to wildflowers of the maddest woman he loved.

The flowers are wild, never manipulated, grown out of their conviction and the love for the house that blooms its petals a blushful pink can’t tame her either. And so her petals caress the brickwork in question and the very foundation of the holiday house consents, for the home has been free of women with madness far too long. The home of stone that’s immovable, the wildflowers that explore each crook of the home grow and the holiday home finds itself covered.

The town expresses displeasure of such a hysterical reunion of the holiday house with the wildflowers. How do wildflowers grow ambitious enough to climb up the holiday house that stands tall? It must’ve been the wildflowers that corrupted the holiday house into allowing them to map its way up the house. 

The blushful pink petals emblematic of a love that’s budding are now a feminine pink that’s angry, bleeding, scathing. The holiday home caresses the wildflowers as they pour in vengeance out of the threshold of the window. The town only scoffs and refers to the wildflowers as Rebekah- after the maddest woman the town has ever seen. And so to rid the town of another madness that plagues its existence, the people approach the wildflowers, a prey found in the midst of a forest. 

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”, madness rings through the wildflowers, pricking those who attempt to near it, bleeding red on the angry petals, the blood dulled in comparison to the pink flaming petals that are scorned. What a shame she went mad.

Who knows if I never showed up what could’ve been? There goes the loudest woman this town has ever seen, I had a marvellous time ruining everything.