MicroHorror

Florrie Budd turned the key and heard the familiar ding of the bell as she opened the door. She punched in the alarm code, closed the door and filled the kettle. The little gas heater out back didn’t penetrate the morning cold so she kept on her coat and scarf, only she exchanged her outdoor glove for the gardening glove she always wore, just one on her left hand. The right hand needed to be free for more delicate tasks.

The kettle hissed and she filled a cup with herbal tea and sipped at the hot liquid. She lifted the black bucket of red roses onto the workbench by the window. An angular shaft of frosty light cut across their stems. Florrie stopped suddenly and bent low with the pain stabbing like a dart through her belly. In her bag she found the prescription tablets and took three instead of two.

As the pain subsided she breathed deeply the scent of all the greenery and flowers. It was a heady mix–a curative potion. There were the two bouquets, some sprays and plants on order. The wreath was still to finish and a few bunches to make up for general sale. Then of course the single roses—long-stemmed for Valentine’s Day. She hated it.

The shop door dinged.

“Is that you, Caroline?” The girl was late again.

“Yes, Mrs. Budd.” Caroline came puffing into the back full of fret and excitement. An envelope dropped out of her pocket as she removed her coat. Florrie could just see the edge of the syrupy card peeking out pinkly.

“I don’t really need you today, Caroline.”

“Oh, but I’m sorry–it won’t happen again, Mrs. Budd.”

“I’m not giving you the sack, Caroline. I just don’t need you today. Be early tomorrow and don’t call me Mrs. Budd.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“Go or I’ll change my mind.” What it was to be young. Florrie relocked the door. She didn’t want to open before she was quite ready.

Sitting on the chair by the bench, Florrie took a little bottle from her handbag. It was one of those plastic holiday bottles, small and convenient. It contained just a few milliliters of a brown liquid–a distillation that had been years in the making. She propped a cone of clear cellophane into the neck of a bottle, shook the liquid to mix the sediment and carefully dipped one of the small brushes she used for removing pollen.

A knock at the back door startled her and she knocked the bottle over.

“Oh, you gave me a turn!” she said, greeting the delivery man. “Two bouquets, a few pot plants and sprays. They’re all ready in the corner there.”

“No Caroline today?” he asked. Caroline always offered him a cuppa.

“No sign of her,” said Florrie. “Probably canoodling with that young man of hers.”

“You’re busy,” he said, looking at the roses. “I’ll just get on, then.”

Florrie returned to her task. None spilled. She took a long-stemmed rose by the neck and painted the stem, brushing over the thorn. The liquid was a concentrate of the root of a Pareira Vine which she had grown herself–planted it, tended it, nurtured it, made her greenhouse into a rainforest so that it might thrive. And as it grew, her plan grew, coiling ever more tightly around her heart until it was the only thing that held that heart together.

Fourteen roses she painted. Fourteen for the date that was never kept. Fourteen for the years she’d spent asking “why?” Fourteen for the steps she’d taken at the wedding rehearsal. Fourteen years since she’d made up her own bouquet and thrown it–in the bin.

Florrie finished the wreath, placed the roses on display and opened for business. Fourteen people were going to die today and tomorrow Caroline would find her grasping a rose–no longer in pain, and the wreath–her final floral tribute to love long dead.