No Bed Of Roses
The serial killer had struck fear — and roses — into the hearts of people.
That was the modus operandi — murdering people, opening up their chest cavity, and leaving a single rose pierced through the heart.
The petal-pushing perpetrator never left any evidence, other than a signature pastel pink rose.
The newspapers had a field day; the citizens were scared witless.
Most uprooted their rose bushes after the fifth floral first-degree. Not me — the heartless horticultural hit-man didn’t dictate my life.
I peeked through a slit in the curtains; two cops on either side of the street eyeballed passersby. The world kept going downhill with clockwork punctuality.
I checked my watch — 7:58 p.m. My dinner date would be here soon. I set the table for a three-course meal and rosé.
She arrived, brightening up my candle-lit living room with her infectious smile and bodacious figure. A maroon one-piece hugged every curve she had.
Dinner ended with dessert, and our conversation veered inevitably towards the flower-forcing fiend.
“That damned rose-rearing ruffian will be caught soon,” she said, her voice soft and somnolent.
“ Or he might disappear after having his fill of debauchery,” I said, optimistically.
She didn’t reply.
Nor did she taste the cyanide in the dessert. Her ice cream bowl clattered onto the floor.
I sighed and gathered the rib-spreader and a single rose from the backyard shed.
Other Me stopped susurrating in my cranium and took charge of my body as I faded. As long as I let Other Me do his thing once a week, he promised not to drive into a tree or slash my wrists.
Other Me was wicked, diabolical, even demonic — but never careless.
The next day, another rose had spruced up the evidence room.
