Wednesday, December 15th (Present)
I toweled myself dry as quickly as I could and pulled on the size-too-big clothes. I wondered if he would ever give in and buy clothes that actually fit me or if he was too determined that I should be a size ten. Not that it really mattered.
As soon as I was ready I grabbed the door handle and ripped it open. We were running late and Rose still had to get ready. She darted in as soon as I was out. Her eyes were wide and face pale. Shit, what would he do if we weren’t ready? I didn’t know that—I’d never asked—and I didn’t ever want to find out.
Poppy was frantically whisking eggs in a bowl. I was thankful that the psycho loved scrambled eggs on toast so much—it was quick and easy. I opened the loaf of bread and pulled out eight slices to toast.
“You okay, Poppy?”
She nodded her head; her hair flew about when she was trying too hard to convince us both that she was fine. “Pop the toast under the grill now, please.”
I did what she told me to do. My heart was working overtime. I didn’t like how nervous they were. They were usually so at ease with him. How could Rose be okay with things down here when she was clearly still scared?
The cellar door unlocked at the same time Rose came out of the bathroom and we finished dishing up breakfast. I grabbed two places when I felt something lightly touch my back. From the faint smell of his woody aftershave, I knew it was him.
“Breakfast smells incredible,” he said. I tensed and smiled over my shoulder, trying to pretend his touch didn’t make me feel ill. I turned and he stepped back, allowing me to move away and put the plates on the table.
My heart rate slowed down as soon as I was away from him. How much longer could I manage to keep away from the psycho? He sat down, followed by Rose and Poppy, and we started eating in silence. He chewed slowly, distracted.
Finally he looked up and asked, “How was your evening last night?”
Depressing and boring—the same as every other night. “Good. We watched a few feel-good movies,” Rose replied. “How was yours?” Feel-good movies down here were Saw and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Nothing could be worse than being locked up by the Clover freak.
He half smiled, eyes darkened, and his eyebrow twitched. It was a sinister look that made my blood run cold. What had he done? Had he killed someone? Did he enjoy doing it, or did he just feel he had to? I didn’t think I would ever be able to understand his reasons, even if he explained them to me until the end of time. He was so intelligent, though. If Poppy and Rose were right and he wanted to change the world for the good, he could have done it the right way. Everything about the fa?ade made you trust him. He looked normal, kind, trustworthy, and dependable. I didn’t understand why he was so fucked up.
I shook my head. Why was I even trying to understand the creep? Shrinks would have a field day with him.
“What happened?” he snapped. I jumped at his sudden outburst and looked over my shoulder to where he was looking. Oh no. The poppies were a dark, dull red and draped lifelessly over the vase. My heart started pounding. Neither the lilies or roses looked particularly good either; they had browned at the edges and started to droop. They were all dying—of course!
He pushed his chair out roughly; it scraped along the tile, making me cringe, and slammed down on the floor. Rose and Poppy stood quickly but I was frozen, completely terrified of what I knew he was about to do. “What. Happened?” His eyes were wild and looked almost glazed over. He was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; his moods could flip in an instant. It was times like this I wondered how much control he had over the flower thing. After all this time he must know what was going to happen. Why did he continue to do it?
“We’re very sorry, Clover. They died,” Rose said. Her voice was soft and soothing, begging him to understand something that she shouldn’t have to explain about and apologize for.
“Died,” he repeated slowly. His breathing switched and became deep and ragged, as if he was fighting for control—making me question if he could help it all over again. “Yes, they died. They died because you can’t take care of them properly.” He slammed his fists down on the table so hard that the glasses of orange juice fell over, spilling down the table and onto the floor. Of course, they fucking died. They’re flowers! They were in a cellar with no natural light. How could someone so intelligent not grasp that? Or did he fully understand but couldn’t accept it? Nothing about him was simple or straightforward. I used to think I was quite good at reading people, but he was something else.