Rotten

1.

-

"I have no particular desire to live. I have no particular desire to be killed. It is a matter of indifference to me. I do not think I am all together right."

- Albert Fish, AKA the Grey Man, the werewolf of Wysteria, the Brooklyn Vampire, the Moon Manic and the Boogey man. Confessed to killing 3 people, but there may have been as many as 10. (The exact number is not known as he was a cannibal)  

-

When a flower rots, when it twists and crumbles into itself, when it stinks of worn socks and mouldy bread, it becomes trash; rubbish; waste. The colour lost, the stem sunken and squishy, the flower both smells and looks like death.

When the garbage trucks comes on Thursday evenings, the men inside dread the untied bags of liquifying petals which fill the bins of one particular household. When the weeks are kind, the bins, all three which line the stone driveway, are only half-full. For the occupants of the white two story home, the half-empty bills meant a variety of different things.

To Shauna Silverman, a 48 year old botanist with gold glasses, a sharp bob of blond hair and a smile as thin and dangerous as rose thorns, it meant business was bad. In the Spring, when both flowers and weddings were abundant, bouquets lined the halls of the heavily windowed home. The outdoor shed became the town of Rosewood's only florist shop. The home itself became a display case. Summer continued the trade in a similar fashion, but allowed Shauna to experiment with colours only a 48 year old would consider 'wild' and 'revolutionary'. In winter, when funerals became more abundant, the bouquets became plain and white, but no less beautiful. With autumn came an abrupt stop to the steady distribution of flowers.

Autumn, in the town of Rosewood, was killing season.

The correctional facility just a few miles south of 'Shauna's Shed' meant death was just round the corner for most residents of Rosewood. The seasonal death of serial rapers and killers meant the seasonal death of the flower trade. And so the half-empty bins meant business was, unfortunately, bad.

For Peter Silverman, the 54 year old reluctant husband of Shauna with a solid round beer gut, a permanently half-shaved beard and eyes so blue they triggered a shiver on the warmest of nights, half-full bins meant business was good.

The correctional officer, recently appointed, thought autumn was a time of great satisfaction and relief. The smell of rotting flowers was replaced with burning odour that came with the hospital products used with each lethal injection. Nothing made Peter happier then watching a murderer die. Sometimes, Thursday night burgers from Little Charlies came close to taking the lead. But that was only when the day had been long and the prison cafeteria sandwiches were just not cutting it.

For Emily Silverman, the 19 year old daughter of the two with her mothers sharp lips and her fathers piercing eyes, the half-empty bins meant nothing but lost potential. The scent of the flowers never really bothered Emily. In fact, the smell intrigued her more than most things in her life. How could something smell so bad, feel so terrible, taste so foul, and yet look so beautiful?

The flowers were always Emily's go to metaphor in her psych papers. The small town psychology professors pandered to her like she was the only university student with a chance of getting a real job after graduation. It was likely, of course, as the only other two psych students at Rosewood College were too busy trying to find the meaning of life at the bottom of French Rosé bottles. But as a result of the exceptionally high grades that fell into Emilys lap, she had grown quietly confident with her ability as a psychiatrist. The corner of her mouth was, of late, permanently curled up into a smirk. Words like 'humble' were not in her repertoire.