Odor of Chrysanthemums
This piece is a Write or Die response to Chrysanthemums by Indira Reddy
Day One.
My roommate’s alarm clock won’t stop shrieking, and that infernal electronic screech has robbed me of precious sleep on my day off. I finally throw my covers off and storm down the hallway, intending to boot the inconsiderate bastard out of bed myself.
The first thing that hits me when I yank my roommate’s bedroom door open is the stink. Something rotten and metallic hits me full in the face and it’s all I can do not to be sick in the hallway.
Wondering what the hell could have caused a stench like that, I flip on the light switch.
A lake of blood nearly covers his bed and what used to be a dark green carpet. Shredded, gore-soaked clothes lie in a heap by his nightstand. There’s no sign of his actual body, but nobody could lose this much blood and live to tell about it.
The alarm keeps beeping, but now I’m too stunned to shut it off. Jesus. I didn’t know the guy that well and he struck me as more than a little weird, but surely he didn’t deserve this.
I want to call out “Hello?” but my trembling lips won’t form the word. And what’s the point? Pretty sure he won’t answer.
My heart’s banging in my chest as I notice one more thing: A chrysanthemum practically floats in the blood pooled on the floor. It’s shriveled and rusty brown, either from age or from what it’s soaked with.
I’d told the idiot to leave those death flowers alone, hadn’t I? And now look.
Call the police, I think.
And tell them what? See, the police and I don’t have the best relationship. They see a mess like this, they’re liable to think I did it. And how am I going to prove I didn’t? I was home alone all last night, but nobody can back me up. I heard him come banging in from the pub late like he usually does — did — but nothing else.
How could I have slept through whatever happened here? The police are sure as hell going to want to know. And I have no answer.
Someone must’ve had it in for him. I can’t imagine why, but you never can tell with the quiet ones, can you? They’d been leaving him those flowers as a warning, one he hadn’t heeded, and now he’s probably at the bottom of the river. That has to be it.
My head’s throbbing in time with that damn alarm clock and I tiptoe around the mess and slam a fist on the “OFF” button so I can think.
Bleach. I’m going to need bleach, and lots of it.
But first, I grab a tissue from his nightstand and pick up the chrysanthemum. I drop it in the bathroom sink, find a lighter, and set the damned thing on fire.
The power in the flat goes out and now the only flickering light comes from that burning flower in the sink. The smell of rot gets so intense that I lose the fight against being sick, and in the darkness I miss the toilet.
When the lights come back on, I get to work.
Day Two.
Something in the drain is moaning.
At first I think it’s just the old pipes acting up. God knows they got a workout yesterday; it took bucket after bucket of water and bleach to get most of the mess off the floor. The bed and the carpet are a lost cause; I’ve no idea what I’m going to do about those yet.
Nobody’s called or stopped by to ask about him. He kept mostly to himself, and I doubt most folks at the pub are going to notice one less drunk slouched on a stool. My plan is to dispose of his things and, when I’m certain the coast is clear, tell the landlord he just took off.
But the odd noise starts getting louder and more anguished sounding, and I turn down the football game so I can hear it more clearly. I tiptoe towards the bathroom, the hair on my arms standing up.
When I turn on the light, the bathroom walls almost vibrate with the agonized moaning. The mac and cheese I had for dinner turns into a heavy lump in my stomach.
A sickly sweet odor fills the air and after a minute I recognize it: Chrysanthemums.
I jam towels into the drain to muffle the sound and slam the bathroom door shut as I leave.
Day Three:
It’s been a long, hard day at work, particularly because I got no sleep the night before. The sounds from the drain never stopped, and while I held out as long as I could, I could hardly avoid the bathroom forever.
And tonight, the moans have turned into sobbing.
It’s just the family downstairs being noisy. I try to make myself believe that.
Day Four:
Something is clogging the bathroom sink; the water refuses to go down after I shave. It’s happened before; the fixtures in this place are all old and worn.
Hoping it’ll be an easy fix, I grab the plunger and plunge the drain over and over until the water starts gurgling and going down. It doesn’t take long and I lean against the wall, sighing in relief. Something went right this week.
But then I glance at the sink.
A waterlogged chrysanthemum lies in the basin, trailing blood.
“I burned you!” I’m yelling at it like it can hear. Grabbing another tissue, I hurl it into the toilet and flush. I don’t draw another breath until the last of the stem disappears.
Day Five:
The flat is calm. Finally. Which doesn’t matter; tonight I pack and tomorrow morning, I get the hell out of here.
I spoke with the landlady, a pinch-faced old broad whose complexion and odor have always made me think of a walking pickle, but she refused to let me break my lease. Stupid old bat.
“You signed a binding contract. And what does the other fellow in your flat have to say about this?” she asked.
“Not much,” I replied truthfully.
Screw her anyway; I’m not waiting for her permission. I didn’t sign a lease for a damn haunted house, and that’s what this place has become. I’ll have to leave most my stuff behind and I hate to do that, but I’ve got some money saved up. I can get new stuff.
What I can’t get is peace and quiet, not as long as I’m still here. I fell asleep in the break room at work today, much to everyone’s amusement — except my supervisor’s.
I’m halfway through packing a suitcase when I hear something in the other bedroom, a splattering sound that makes me go cold. I haven’t so much as opened the door to that room since I cleaned up all the blood.
When I look down the hall, there’s a strip of light under my roommate’s door.
“Holy shit,” I tell the hallway. Has he actually come back after all?
I move towards his room and rap on the door.
“You in there? Hello? Thought you were a goner, mate.”
No response. And there’s that smell again: sickening sweet chrysanthemums, but with a deeply rotten stink underneath.
“Hello?”
I mustn’t open the door.
I have to open the door.
And when I do, I see it: A message scrawled in huge, jagged red letters on the bedroom wall.
THE EYE IS OPEN.
That’s all the prodding I need. I race back to my own room and close my suitcase, cursing when the zipper jams. I wasn’t finished packing, but there’s no more time to care. Anything I don’t have, I’ll do without until I can stop at a store.
I’m dragging my suitcase down the hall when someone knocks at the front door. Hard. Over and over. My heart leaps up into my throat as the banging continues, growing louder and louder. I freeze, trying not to move or breathe as the wooden door splinters from the force of what’s just outside.
Terrye Turpin and Sarah Goldsmith, you have been entered to the Hell of the Dead by me. To escape to the Living Hall, you will have to recreate this piece in your own words or extend it as part of the Write or Die collaboration. Failure to comply will leave your name and soul in the Hell of the Dead.
