You return home to discover a huge flower bouquet waiting for you, no card attached. Who is it from, and why did they send it to you?
I let go of the old creaky gate, my heart flinching as it slammed against the wooden post, the rusting clasp slamming down holding the gate in place. At first I thought the wind had blown debris from an abandoned fire into the garden. Small black flecks floated softly across the deep green grass. I reached my hand out, an instinct. Then I realised they were something else. Small black petals. I reached for my keys at the bottom of my bag before I reached the small alley that led to my door. Dark, cold and in an eternal shade I liked to get through the door as quickly as I could. Strange, as I am sure that I clearly remember the sun shining down so brightly on that very door, the day that I had viewed the house, and yet now, the sun never seemed to reach that far.
As I reached the door it became clear where the petals had come from. A large bouquet of black roses wrapped delicately in a crimson red silk scarf were sat waiting on my door step. As I picked them up I could feel the softness of the silk against my fingers, fluid like, warm. I tore open the small black envelope curious to see who had sent the odd arrangement of flowers, and wondering if perhaps they had come to the wrong address. As I read the words I could feel my heart beat slowing down.
Roses are black,
blood is red,
It’s too late now,
you’re fucking dead.
I dropped the flowers to the ground. My hands, smeared in crimson red, my fingers burned. I felt my legs go weak and then strong arms around my waist. A cool breeze that soothed my burning skin. His lips soft against my neck. His eyes black as he looked into my soul until finally his teeth sharp against my skin. He held my crumbling body as he drank away my life.