The Rose Garden

THE ROSE GARDEN

By

Westley Smith

There was so much blood. I had expected there to be blood, but not this much. Then again, I had not thought myself capable of such violence.

David lay on the floor at my feet. The left side of his head caved in where I had hit him repeatedly with the hammer – the hammer I put under the sink while he was at work. His eyes were open, a look of utter shock and terror forever encapsulated in the deep blue of his irises. The halo of blood around his head growing towards the carpeted floor just beyond the tile of our master bathroom.

No! No! No! Not my white carpet.

I couldn’t let the blood touch the carpet. I would never get it out. An everlasting stain that would remind me of David and what he had done. It would also be physical evidence that I had murdered my husband.

I grabbed the hand towel from the rack next to the sink. Stepping over David, I fell onto my knees. I placed the towel between the growing blood-pool and the carpet, stopping it just before the liquid crimson absorbed into the plush fibers. Phew! I pushed the blood back with the towel, like moving spilled syrup away from the edge of the countertop before it dripped onto the floor.

I sat back on my haunches and looked upon my dead husband. Oh, David, it wasn’t supposed to be this way. We were supposed to live happily ever after, just like in the fairytales.  But life with David wasn’t like the fairytales my father read to me as a child. Happily ever after my ass. I realized the fairytales I was read as a child, were nothing but lies a few years into our marriage. David wasn’t my prince. He was my toad.

I pulled myself up using the sink. The joints in my knees screamed as I rose. 

Moving David out of the bathroom wasn’t going to be easy. He was six foot six and two hundred and twenty pounds. But I had prepared for that part…well, as much as one could prepare for removing one’s dead husband from a two-story house.

But I had not accounted for all that damn blood. That put a kink in my plan.

“You couldn’t make this easy on me could you, David,” I said to his corpse.

I stepped away from the sink, where the hammer rested in the bowl; its head covered in blood and dark hair follicles and tiny specks of his white skull. I eased open the bathroom door and stepped into our bedroom, closing the door silently as I could so not to…

“Mommy?”

My body tensed at the sound of my daughter’s voice. Dear God, had she heard me beating her father to death with the hammer? Did she hear the sound his skull made, that sickening, sucking-squishing sound when his head split open like a melon?

“Susie,” I said, turning, putting on my warmest, motherly smile for my five-year-old – a smile I had perfected over the years, a smile I hid behind for so long. “What are you doing up, sweetheart?”

“I heard a noise,” Susie said, still half asleep while digging a small knuckle into her right eye socket.

“You must’ve been dreaming. Go back to bed, sweetheart.”

“But I heard a thump and felt the house shake.”

“Well, I didn’t hear anything. And I have been here with your dad all night. It must have been a dream.”

“But I felt it, Mommy. I know I did.”

“Shhhhh!” I crossed the room to her and took her hand. “Let’s get you back into bed.”

“Can Daddy read me a fairytale so I can fall back to sleep?” Susie asked.

“I don’t think so,” I nearly spat but hid the venom in my voice. Susie wasn’t getting the same indoctrination as I had as a child. I would make sure of that from here on out.

I led Susie across the hall to her bedroom and tucked her under the covers. I sat down on the side of the bed and ran my hand through her blonde curls.

“I love you,” I said. “Now go back to sleep.”

She studied me with a strange, sleepy curiosity that kids sometimes do when there is something on their minds at bedtime.

“Mommy?”

“Yeah?” I tried to make my voice sound warm.

“What’s that red stuff on your nightgown?”

“What red –“ I looked down at my white nightgown and saw splotches and streaks of red spatter across the front. Shit! In my insanity-fogged mind, I had not noticed how much of David’s blood had gotten on me.

“It’s on your face, too. And your hands.” Susie said, taking my hand in hers, examining it closely. 

“It’s paint, honey,” I replied, snatching my hand back. Daddy and I were painting the bathroom.”

“In your nightgown?”

“I’m more comfortable in my nightgown when I paint.”

“But how did it get all over you?”

“Daddy dropped the brush.”

“Was that the thump I heard?”

“Yeah.” I stood. “Now, go back to sleep.” I started towards the door when Susie called out to me again.

“Mommy?”

“Yes,” I said, turning back to her once more.

“You said there was no thump?”

“Huh?”

“You said that I must have been dreaming. That the thump I heard was in my dream.”

“Did I?” Think of something quick. “I guess I forgot your dad dropped the brush.”

“So…I wasn’t dreaming?”

“No. You weren’t. But if you hear anything else – thumps, bumps, bangs, or clangs – it’s just me and your dad painting and moving around the house, so don’t get out of bed. Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Goodnight.” I pulled Susie’s door shut and hurried back to the bathroom.

I saw myself in the mirror as I entered. I hardly recognized the blood-covered woman with pieces of bone fragments stuck in her blonde hair staring back at me. Surely that wasn’t my reflection, but some demonic incantation of myself.  I turned on the sink and washed the blood off my face, hands, and arms. I then began picking the bone out of my hair and dropped the pieces into the toilet. I flushed them away, like my dreams of a fairytale life with David.

Now clean of David’s blood, I stepped back out into the bedroom, stripped my nightgown, and pulled on sweatpants, a t-shirt, and sneakers. I needed to move David, but I couldn’t simply drag him from the bathroom, especially with all that blood leaking from his thick, neanderthal skull. No. I needed something to wrap him in first.

I made my way downstairs as if I were walking on eggshells. I was used to walking on eggshells living with David, tiptoeing around everything, so he didn’t fly off the handle. But this time I didn’t want to wake my daughter and have her ask me more questions.

At the kitchen door, I pulled the blind aside and looked out into the darkness of the backyard. It was relatively early in the evening, just past nine, but our nosy neighbor, Lloyd, had a habit of letting his dog out around that time of night. Thankfully, Lloyd’s back porch light was off. He was inside with his dog. If I moved quickly, I could get to the shed at the end of the yard, grab David’s blue tarp, and be back inside before Lloyd and his dog made their evening pilgrimage.   

I eased open the back door and stepped out into the darkness. The evening air was cool on my hot skin. The late May air smelled sweet with the spring freshness of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass. But another smell came to my nose.

Roses.

I stepped off the porch and looked at my rose garden, where they had begun to grow full and tall until David had taken the weedwhacker to them yesterday afternoon out of spite. We had had another argument. I don’t even remember what we were arguing about – maybe money or sex; it could have been about Susie or his abusiveness. I really don’t remember. The argument seemed like a lifetime ago after tonight. But what David did after our fight, a real prince would never have done. But a toad? A toad would walk out to the shed, start up the weedwhacker, and take it to my beloved roses, just to kill any remainder of happiness they had brought my life.

I wanted to cry. My beautiful roses, which I spent ten years growing and caring for as if they were my children, were gone. Nothing was left, but jaggedly cut stumps and deadly-sharp thorn stems laying in the dirt. The beautiful red-velvety petals were scattered around the garden and yard like blood spatter at a crime scene.

I pushed the anger I felt for David away and moved towards the shed. The smell of the dead roses passed by my nose as I walked. It gagged me like the rotting carcass of a dead animal. I put my hand over my nose to block out the putrid smell.

I turned the shed’s latch and pulled one of the heavy wooden doors open and looked into the blackness that engulfed the interior. From memory, I knew David kept the tarp just inside the door on the right. I reached around the corner into the black void, my fingers brushing the heavy plastic tarp inside. There you are. I was about to pull the tarp out, turn, and head back inside when Lloyd’s porch light burst on like a spotlight, illuminating the entire backyard and front of the shed.

           An icy hand clasped suddenly around my heart, and I heard myself suck in an audible breath. If Lloyd saw me out by the shed at that time of night, he would surely ask why I was out there. Not to mention, it would give the police someone to question later on, if things turned sideways with my plan. I couldn’t let him see me.

           I heard the all-too-familiar squeak of Lloyd’s backdoor open. I quickly jumped inside the shed and pulled the door closed behind me, leaving it cracked slightly so I could see out.

           Lloyd, and his Terrier, Baxter, stepped out onto the porch. Baxter ran down the steps and began sniffing for a place to squat in the grass while Lloyd waited by the door for him to finish.

           “Hurry up!” Lloyd crooned.

           Baxter continued to sniff around. The dog never listened to Lloyd. It wasn’t uncommon for me to hear Lloyd yelling at the dog to get back into the house. After several failed attempts to get the dog to listen to his commands, Lloyd would waddle off the porch, yank the dog by the collar, and walk him back to the house himself.

           Baxter continued to search the yard for that magical spot, but there didn’t seem to be a place that suited him tonight. He made a few circles before beginning to walk the perimeter of Lloyd’s yard and mine, his nose to the ground sniffing.

           “Don’t you go over in their yard!” Lloyd yelled. “Baxter!”

           Baxter had a habit of doing his business in my yard.

           “Baxter! Baxter, get over here this minute!”

            The dog ignored Lloyd and continued to come into my yard, sniffing his way towards the shed, where he finally stopped in front of the door. He sat down and looked directly into my eyes, as if he could see me peeking out from the small crack between the shed doors. He tilted his head to the right and let a slight whine out.

           “Baxter!”

           I looked up. Lloyd was halfway down the steps now.

           “Baxter, get over here.”

           The dog stayed put in front of the shed. Lloyd came down another step and yelled for Baxter to come, but Baxter did not move a muscle. 

           “Get out of here. Go!” I whispered from inside the shed.

           Baxter tilted his head again and then raised his paw as if he wanted to shake.

           For the love of God, I thought, rolling my eyes.

“Get out of here, you little shit,” I whispered, this time through gritted teeth.

           Then I saw a movement. Lloyd was coming towards the shed now, looking like an agitated bull fuming and frothing at the mouth. I felt my breath catch in my chest. If Lloyd found me in the shed, he would know something strange was going on. And, knowing Lloyd as well as I do, he would tell the entire neighborhood about finding me in the shed the night David disappeared. I didn’t need that headache or that kind of attention on me.

           I backed away from the door, into the bath of darkness, as Lloyd neared the shed. I held my breath the closer he got, and for a moment, I thought he had seen me when his eyes flicked up to the shed doors. But when he snatched Baxter up by the collar, then turned, and headed back to his house, I breathed a sigh of relief. I stayed in the darkness until Lloyd’s porch light went out, then grabbed the tarp and headed back inside.

           I spread the tarp out on a clean spot on the bathroom floor and rolled David onto it. Using some heavy yarn that I had in the closet, I tied the tarp tight, ensuring all the ends were secure so no blood would leak out when I moved him.

           When I was finished securing David into his blue coffin, I cleaned up the blood on the floor to not drag his body through it when I moved him. I would take care of the rest later, including hiding the hammer. 

I took hold of David’s feet and began to pull him. His body slid easily on the tiled floor, but when I hit the carpet in the bedroom, it felt like I was dragging a log through the mud. I slogged, pulling his dead weight through the bedroom, and by the time I reached the hallway, I was sweating profusely and panting. I paused to catch my breath.

           Once oxygenated, I began to pull him again, this time down the hall towards the steps. It was easier to move his body on the hallway’s wooden floors. I took the stairs backward, with David’s feet still in my hands, and began to pull him carefully, slowly, so not to wake Susie, down the stairs. But, as quiet as I wanted to be, David’s head made a dull thump as it came off one step and fell to the next.

           “Be quiet, David,” I whispered. “You’ll wake Susie.”          

I made it to the bottom of the stairs and then looked back up to Susie’s room. The door was still closed. I listened to the sounds of the house but did not hear Susie’s familiar footsteps. She was sleeping. Good.

I took a moment to catch my breath and then began inching David towards the kitchen. But as I moved his body through the kitchen doorway, the yarn holding the tarp together caught on the edge of the doorframe and rip free. David’s lifeless arm seemed to spring out from inside and hit the floor with a wet splat, like a fish being slapped down onto a cutting board.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I hung my head, exhausted.

I crossed the kitchen to the junk drawer, opened it, and pulled out the duct tape. You can fix anything with duct tape.

Returning to my dead husband, I slid his arm back under the tarp and began to tear strips of tape off the roll, and re-secured the tarp where it had opened up. I then drug him across the kitchen to the backdoor. Once again, I pulled the blind aside to see if Lloyd and Baxter had ventured back outside. But there was nothing but blackness beyond my house. I suddenly yearned for the comfort of the cool, outside darkness to quell my overheated body again. 

Opening the door, I yanked David out onto the porch and down the steps. His head again bounced from step to step, making a hollow sound this time, like rapping your knuckles on a coconut.

I drug him across the lawn, which was easier since the grass was slick with dew, towards the rose garden. Once by the garden, I dropped his feet, glad that I would never have to do this again. Grabbing the spade shovel that I had placed there earlier that afternoon, I began to dig into the soft dirt.

I dug into the wee hours of the morning, and by the time I rolled David into his grave, the sun was beginning to turn the sky a beautiful pink-rose color. How fitting, I thought. I then began to shovel the dirt back into the hole.

When I was finished, I patted the dirt down and smoothed it out, so it looked undisturbed.

I was about to return to the house when I heard the squeak of Lloyd’s backdoor open, and he and Baxter came out. Baxter shot down the steps and began to sniff around the yard. Lloyd yawned, and his eyes drifted over the lawn, finally falling on me.

“You’re up early,” he said.

“Wanted to get a head start on my gardening today,” I replied.

“I saw David chopped your roses down,” There was a hint of concern in his words. As nosey as he was, he had to know about our tumultuous relationship.

I turned and looked back at what once was my beautiful rose garden. My heart sank. But then, strangely, it lifted.

“Yeah. I thought it was time for a change.”

“What are you thinking about planting this time?” Lloyd asked.

I thought for a moment. “Daffodils.”

“Daffodils?”

I smiled. “Yeah. Daffodils symbolize a new beginning.”

THE END