FREAKS || Jerome Valeska¹

38 || What It Feels Like

After Isabella's death, Edward sunk into a deep depression. He didn't smile, didn't eat much, and rarely engaged in conversation. His routine had become lying on the couch, wrapped in blankets, while blasting the same Vivaldi song on the record player. It did begin to annoy me, but I didn't say anything because he took care of me when I was depressed about Jerome. And when I think about him, he's there for me. He assists me in everything I need and is my pillar through thick and thin. I needed to be his this time.

The doorbell to the residence announced a new arrival, and I exchanged a look with Olga, who was in the kitchen with me. She smiled before walking out. It seems like out of us Nygma's, only I managed to conquer her kindness. I took the smoothie I had made and returned to the dining room just as Olga approached. She smirked and pointed at the door and then at me. "I get vase for you, dear."

Perplexed, I left my smoothie and walked to the door, where I found a teenage boy, around fifteen, holding a medium-sized bouquet of fresh roses.

His eyes widened when we saw me. "H-Hey." He stammered anxiously, fear evident. It seemed as if he was going to pass out right this instant. A kind smile came on my face, hiding my awkwardness. "Miss Nygma, right?"

My smile dropped, and I raised an eyebrow. "You are this nervous, and you're still going to ask?" I narrowed my eyes, prompting him to pale, shaking his head 'no'. I chuckled and pointed at the bundle in his arms. "So, I am assuming these are for me, right?" I guessed. He nodded, handing me the flowers. I leaned to take a deep whiff of the beautiful, fresh red roses - Sweet and earthy. I smiled softly. I scanned around, but there was no note or letter. Intrigued, I looked at the teenager. "Who sent you?"

He shrugged cluelessly. "I don't know her name."

I blinked rapidly, taken aback. "Her?" Well, that's different.

"Yeah." He confirmed, nodding. "She gave me thirty bucks to bring 'em directly to you." He then pointed somewhere behind him, but no one was in the spot he had mentioned. "Oh, shi - I swear, on God, she was right there!"

"What'd you say she looked like?" I interrogated.

He frowned, searching through his memory. "Uh, young, quite tall... brown eyes... her hair was brown with like - like blonde in it." He tried to remember, squinting his eyes, then they widened, and he snapped his fingers; he remembered something else. "She was serious. Not even kidding. She did not talk much; I only got like a sentence from her. I think she works for someone... she didn't look like the type to send you flowers."

"You never know." I joked.

"Trust me, I know. She looked pissed."

I laughed quietly, my head cocking to the side as my mind drowned in perplexity. My gaze returned to the young boy, who was inspecting me. "Anything else?" He squinted as he got to thinking but eventually shook his head in denial. Just then, the Vivaldi music got louder. I looked at the young boy with a tight smile. "Okay, well, thanks for bringing me the flowers. See ya."

He looked surprised, as if he thought me letting him go was a joke or something. But instead of giving him more attention, I closed the door and returned to the dining room. My lips pursed in deep thought, rewinding the boy's words. A woman sent me this, but she might be working for someone... but why?

Was it that old man again? I hope not.

Oswald was getting a painting made of him in the dining room. His eyebrows inched closer as he watched me come in with the rose bundle in my arms. "Who's that from?"

"Don't know." I shrugged and sat down at the table, where Olga had already placed a vase. The roses were arranged. "But they're beautiful." My shoulders then shuddered; the same Vivaldi song restarted.