Lured into the Danger

Douze

"Missing? What do you mean he's missing?"
"I don't know dude. I went over to his place and he was gone. He's probably been gone since the day we met up."
Gilbert stuck his phone between his shoulder and ear, taking another sip of his drink. He had been downing them since happy hour, trying to get rid of a pain he couldn't trace. He didn't think he'd be able to make it home like this. He planned to drink himself to sleep right there at the bar.
But now Matthew was missing and he was the last one to see him.
He wondered if that was a goodbye, if it meant Matthew had other plans for himself, and he suddenly felt sick. 

"Look man, I've got to go. Call me if you find anything." Gilbert said, hanging up and downing the rest of his drink. 

He slipped off his bar stool and stumbled toward the bathroom. 

"You okay, buddy?" The bartender asked. 

"Yep. I'm fine." Gilbert lied. He entered the washroom and launched himself into the closest stall, falling over the toilet just in time for the vomit to erupt from his throat. 

He puked until his stomach hurt and his throat burned and then he puked some more. By the time he was finished, he doubted he had anything left in him. 

He stumbled out of the bathroom and toward the door. 

"You going home in this condition?" The bartender asked. 

"Yeah. I'll be fine." 

"Can I call you a taxi?" 

"I don't live far." Gilbert lied, exiting the bar. The streets were dark and if he wasn't muscular and rugged looking, he would probably be afraid, but looking like a drowned sewer rat had its benefits. 

When he made it to his front door, he tripped, collapsing onto the pavement in tears. He felt himself sinking into something dark. 

Part of him had expected Matthew to be here, waiting for another night of hiding out, but his wishes had not been granted. This could only mean one thing. 

Matthew had tried to finish the job he had started. He had probably tried to jump into traffic again. He might have been in the morgue in some hospital, unclaimed and alone. Or maybe he had survived a second hit and was in another part of the hospital, unable to tell the doctors who he was due to a coma or his inability to speak. Gilbert had no idea where to go next with this. 

He lifted his head, blinking at what had been left beneath his doorknob. 

A bouquet of flowers?

He got up, looking at the variety of plants wrapped in a black ribbon. A note on white stationary was nestled inside it, his name written on the outside in curly script. 

Grabbing the letter, he unfolded it, reading the strange poem from the inside. 

A carnation from the lost one, too tossed around to speak

who gives to you this rue, of a truth he faced too weak.

Due to acacia, a harsh loss of oats

and two years of lichen, choking out his shouts. 

He pleads for tonquil, the flavor which he chose

but all he has is marigold and elegante rose. 

"Uh...What the fuck?"