Always With the Flowers Pt. 1

The lights turned on. A chair lay dormant on its side. The gagging smell of foul beef reverberates between the walls. Two plates set perfect in their placing. A broken glass lay vacantly on the floor, bleeding merlot. The sound of crunching glass echoes under the pressure of size 10 work boots.

Franklin, a plump middle-aged man fighting a receding hairline stands alone in a room of scattered chaos. Wiping the sweat from his forehead Franklin reaches into his pocket for a pen and pad. While biting on the pen he wipes the sweat clear once again. Staring off past the living room table Franklin focuses on a large framed painting of a rose bed. Shaking his head he looks down to the destroyed floral centerpiece scattered on the table. Flowers. Always with the flowers. Beauty, if only for a short time. A weeks worth of happiness followed by death. Slamming his fist on the table causing the plates to jump, be begins writing.

Denise, a beautiful 30 something blonde hovers over a stove. Tasting a wooden spoon covered in red sauce she pauses; then continues to stir. Reaching over the pot of sauce to a row of spices, Denise grabs the container marked parsley. Screwing off the cap she looks down at her blouse. Shit! She franticly tries to remove the deep red speck of sauce from her beige blouse but it was too late. The stain had set. Turning the heat down on the burner she runs upstairs for a fresh wardrobe.

Franticly raping her closet for a new outfit, Denise checks her watch. 9:39. Will I be ready? I have to be ready. Throwing another little-black-dress to the floor she settles on a victim. I hate this dress.

Wiping the tears from his eyes Franklin tares the page from the pad. Reading it over one last time he turns to the ground and begins searching. More crunching glass and spilled dishes of asparagus smear the floor while Franklin hurriedly scavenges. Franklin’s breathing increases. Lifting a napkin, then a oven mitt. Nothing. Wiping the side of his head on his sleeve, Franklin stops. Eyes fixed and calm. Taking a step past the mess of red sauce he picks up a steak knife. Wiping the blooded blade clean against his navy blue work pants, Franklin grabs his printed page. He confidently walks over to face the framed bed of roses painting. He places the page on the painting and reads it. Franklin closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then stabs the page onto the painting with the knife. More crunching glass, then silence.