Page 22 of Petite Fleur

Again, not the point.

The point is that I have an entire trunk full of bleach and will be wasting the rest of my evening scrubbing my basement.

Sam Fredrick died after about four hours of fun.

I could have kept going; I wanted to, but he took the fun out of it by vomiting a few too many times.

Once he started to vomit blood and was no longer able to speak, I finally gave up and decided to pity him and suffocate him just as he did to Denise.

It felt good, and Denise deserved the little piece of justice she got.

Unfortunately, now my entire basement fucking stinks.

The rotten smell of blood, piss, shit, and vomit is trapped in that room. The air is so thick and putrid that the overwhelming bleach smell will be a welcomed distraction.

As for the body, I handed that.

I melted the meat and flesh off of his bones, dumped it all in a sewer drain, and ground up his bones for fertilizer.

A couple of years ago, I read that ground animal bones are perfect for flower beds.

While I don't have any flowers, I do have a corner of my shed dedicated to the potential of planting flowers. There's soil, seeds, a shovel, and a few necessities.

Basically, everything I need to give the appearance that I'm just dying to plant roses and haven't had the time.

Just enough to not be suspicious if the cops ever showed up and found a bag of ground bones.

I'm probably being paranoid. Despite doing this since I was 18, I've never even been considered a suspect, but I'd rather be paranoid than stupid.

Even here, even now, as I scrub every inch of this room with bleach. Even as my nose burns from the harsh smell and I'm dripping in sweat, my mind floats back to Maeve.

My mind is trapped with her blueberry scent and the gorgeous freckles on her face.

Maeve, that's such a beautiful and unique name for the siren who's kidnapped my mind.

Today, she had her hair pulled into another strange braid, displaying every shade of honey and brown between the twists of her hair and another music festival getup.

She had on some sort of romper, sage green with white lace, and a canvas bag slung across her chest.

She doesn't fit into this town, this decade, or my life, but she also fits perfectly in everything.

Somehow, despite our vastly different lives, she looks as if she's about to take special mushrooms and dance in the rain while I look as if I've never once seen happiness; she fits.

I can never have her; she's too good and too bright for the world that I live in. However, that doesn't stop me from wishing things were different.

It doesn't stop my mind from floating back to her every time I dump another bucket of bloody bleach water down the drain.

Every time my knees ache from sliding across the cold tile floor, my mind is stuck on the young woman who smiled at me as she spun around and told me her name.

My mind returns to the setting sun flowing in behind her like a halo that only dares to shine for her and her alone.

It's a welcomed distraction from my least favorite part of my hobby, cleaning up.

Getting my basement to an acceptable standard takes me the entire night. When I get upstairs, I see the rising sun blaring in from my windows and sigh in defeat that I will be exhausted all day.

I'm too damn old for this.

Thank fuck I don't have my first client until the afternoon; at least I can sleep in a little.

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