Roses

I’m in the park. Huh. I didn’t even realise I’d left the apartment, and my feet have already taken me inside that gate. I can’t help myself sometimes, I know that. They’ve told me not to leave the apartment, but I’m already out. I don’t feel in control of my own legs, but right now, I just don’t care. The park is just so beautiful today. The twilight sun is shining just right on those pretty roses, the grass looks so green and pretty, the paths are just begging to be used. I love springtime, don’t you? I know, I know, it’s not safe to go out. But the roses! They’re just too pretty to resist. The gardener must be a brilliant fellow, to keep them so well-maintained. But is he as good as she was?

Look at me, drifting off again, like I always do when I think about her. But when it comes to her, I’ve never had any control over my thoughts. Especially when I’m near so many roses. Their sweet smells, their bright colours, their gentle beauty. And their fierce thorns. They remind me of her. And not just because she grew them so lovingly. Because, in the end, as beautiful as they were, they were the reason I’m here now. After all, they’re what led me to her.

She was a florist, see. A florist who grew most of her flowers herself. She used to sing to her beloved plants, I remember. Even now, her sweet voice rings through my mind, singing any song she thought of in that off-key manner of hers. She sang even to the roses, sometimes; the ones she had in her shop. The singing was what led me to her. I was drawn to it, like a man drawn to a siren song. And she wasn’t even a great singer!

It was just her energy, her happiness shining through the song that was captivating. Or maybe I’m just biased. But still, it takes guts to sing so loudly when you know you’re terrible, and she definitely knew. It was awe-inspiring, how she just didn’t care what anyone thought about her terrible singing. In fact, when I told her I hated her singing, she looked at me for one second and burst out laughing! I’m not singing for you, she said, I’m singing for me.

Was she my soulmate? I don’t know. I never believed in soulmates. But I think we just fit. She was the bold to my timid, the outspoken to my shy. We got talking that first day, when I entered the shop with nothing on my mind except that I wanted to get to know that girl with the cheerful voice and boldly off-key singing. She was the one who started that conversation, actually. For that matter, she was the one who first asked me out, too, and the one who proposed, down on one knee, ring and all. She was amazing. And I was the luckiest guy in the world.

We had a happy marriage, her and I. We had our ups and downs, of course, like all couples. Like that devastating time she had a miscarriage. And then another. We decided to give up, after that. The roses in our little garden are enough of a responsibility, anyway, she said. But we bounced back, stronger than ever after every disagreement. We navigated the adventure of marriage together, and after a decade, we were the only couple in our entire circle who were still in love.

Now, in my weakest moments, I wish it hadn’t been so. I wish our love had faded away, bit by bit, over time. It’s mean of me to think that way, I know. I hate those thoughts myself. But then, anything’s better than this pain. She wouldn’t like it, the way I’m feeling now. She’d tell me to buck up and move on, dude! We lived through two miscarriages! I can hear her voice, berating me. But I don’t want to move on. Not yet, anyway. It’s only been a week. We took months to move on from the miscarriages. And they weren’t even born yet. She’s the love of my life. Of course it'll take more time with her.

I know I’m not supposed to think about that day. The worst day of my life. It always makes me tremble and sweat. When the memories are fresh in my mind, my nightmares are even worse than usual. But I can’t help it. Not today. Not now. Because the roses remind me of her. And today, with the smell of her favourite flower as strong as the most potent perfume, the memory is so strong that I’m living it. I can see the shop in front of me. I can feel the cold wind whipping across my skin through the open window. I can hear her mumbling the details of the special-order bouquet through the call, which is still on. I can smell the lilies, the orchids and the daisies, not just the roses.

I feel like I’m watching some sort of horror movie. The memories are flooding in, unbidden, and I feel detached, somehow. The feelings will come later. I’ll pay for this at night. But I can’t bring myself out of it. It’s happening in slow motion. Me, waiting outside, to the side, for her to get done, so we can go on our weekly date. The tall man going into the shop. Her voice, asking him how she could help. The man, calmly taking out a gun. Me, freezing up in horror, unable to move. The blood on her forehead where the bullet hit her. So much blood. The man, rummaging through her new desk and appearing outside with a small bag. He hadn’t been carrying that before.

I didn’t know whether to thank my luck or curse it when it happened, because I was sitting in my car and he didn’t see me. But I saw him. The hard lines of his face, his cruel grey eyes, his curly black hair, they were all seared into my mind. I should have died right along with her that day. But fate had other plans, apparently. I remember the rest of that evening with the same crystal clarity. The police, interrogating me. My automatic answers to their questions. My description of the man. Their double-take when they heard it.

Apparently, the monster who killed my wife was well hated among the policemen. He was a hardened criminal. A man with no conscience. A notorious bank-robber known for leaving at least a couple of bodies in each bank he stole from, and for being uncatchable. Well, the police had caught him multiple times, but they could never make any charges stick. “The snake”, they called him, because he slithered out from every arrest like the slippery creature he was.

They told me that the bag he carried out probably held the loot from his last robbery. He had stolen a bag of solid gold from a specific locker in that bank. The police had almost caught him then, and he must have stashed the stuff in the nearest hiding spot. Just a terrible coincidence that my wife bought the hiding place the very next day. The worst possible coincidence.

He’s been arrested now, and I’m the best chance they have at putting him away for the rest of his life. The police spirited me away to their nearest safe house as soon as I identified him, and I’m waiting for the court hearings to start. I should have died that day, but somewhere deep down, I’m glad I didn’t. Thanks to my good fortune, I can prevent him from doing further harm. I can bring closure to the families of all those people who had died at his hands and save the people who might come next if not for me. I won’t let more families suffer like I am because of that destructive man.

In the distance, I hear my guard. And just like that, I’m back in the park. I’d forgotten where I was for a moment. I feel dizzy. I’m trembling and the guard is shaking me, calling my name. I brace myself for his irritation, at me leaving the protection of that tiny apartment they’ve cloistered me in. But what do they expect when there are roses around? They know as well as I do how appealing I find those beautiful flowers. Well, maybe they don’t. So I let them lead me back to my temporary home. After all, I can’t let myself be killed. Lives depend on my testimony.

It’s time for me to be brave, to bring justice to the monster who killed her so callously. It’s time for me to show courage. For her. The love of my life. My soulmate. My wife.