She Smelled of Lilacs

She smelled of lilacs. Nick wasn’t sure if the scent had come from Brooke’s shampoo, perfume, her soap, or if it was just her natural scent. It was one of the last things he continued to love about his wife even after he had managed to get rid of her body without arousing any suspicion. When he arrived home the morning he had committed the deed, soon after he had rid the house of all evidence of any wrongdoing on his part, Nick scrubbed the walls and the carpets to rid the house of that fragrance. Every possible avenue that would lead investigators to Nick had been thoroughly eliminated.

One day later, patrol officers knocked on Nick’s front door responding to a noisy neighbor complaint. What they found was a mystery that they believed solved itself with the exception of one clue; a clue that they nor anyone but you, the reader, could have even called a clue. The officers in question are veteran Officer Jacobs and the rookie Officer Shepard.

“I don’t think anybody’s home,” Shepard said.

“That’s unlikely,” Jacobs responded, “The call came in less than 20 minutes ago.”

“Maybe they think we’ll go away if they keep quiet.”

“Ha, if only that were the case; the ironic thing being that that’s probably what we would have told them to do anyway.”

“I don’t want to come off sounding bored or anything,” Shepard continued as he pounded on the door again, “but is the job usually this quiet?”

“Why? Don’t tell me you’ve got an itchy trigger finger already.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just feels like my first week has been more about wagging my finger at noisy neighbors than protecting people.”

“You’ll be fine kid. This neighborhood isn’t exactly known for its crime rate.”

Officer Shepard knocked one more time on the door and yelled out that it was the police.

“Looks like we just missed them somehow,” Jacobs commented, “Let’s go get some coffee.”

Shepard walked towards the car when he noticed a splatter of red on the wall through the window. Upon closer inspection he could just make out a hand on the floor just beyond the door that led to the study.

“Jacobs! Come here! I think there’s a body in there!”

“What are you talking about?” Jacobs ran up to the window and peeked where Shepard was pointing. “Oh, my God! Get your gun ready and let’s get this door opened.” The two officers kicked down the door, guns drawn and found that the house, other than Nick’s corpse, was empty.

“Hey, Jacobs, check this out,” Shepard said as he approached the body.

“What is it?”

“His fingers look like they’ve stiffened around the weapon. It looks like one of those letter openers.”

“I guess you can’t say your first week was totally uneventful. Hey, look at this on the desk.”

“Looks like a note.”

“Suicide note. And what looks like some sort of confession,” Jacobs added. Shepard looked over his partner’s shoulder and read the note to himself.

“Jesus… Killed his wife in cold blood and ended up killing himself out of guilt.”

“That’s what it looks like. Gruesome way to go though. I’ve never even heard of stabbing yourself to death except maybe in samurai movies. I’ll go call it in.”

“No, let me. Please. I need the fresh air anyway.”

Shepard rushed outside and nearly threw up into the hedges but instead took a few deep breaths before alerting dispatch of the corpse they had found.

“You okay, rookie?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. But I don’t think I’ll be transferring to homicide anytime soon.”

“I worked homicide a few years back. You never get used to it. There are a couple of things that were a little off though.”

“Like what?”

“The neighbors complained about the noise. I could have sworn it was just a domestic abuse call. And did you see the state of that office?”

“He was pretty messy.”

“Looked more like there was a struggle.”

“Maybe he stuck that letter opener in his chest and realized too late that he didn’t have to. I mean he did have a note and everything. Unless we don’t find the body, all the pieces seem to fit.”

“Maybe. Then there was the smell.”

“Yeah, I thought that too. I mean, I knew corpses would wreak but this one seemed different.”

“’Different’ is definitely the right word.”

The detectives from the homicide division arrived a few minutes later followed shortly by the ambulance to take away Nick’s lifeless corpse. While rookie Officer Shepard patted himself on the back for spotting the corpse on what would be a memorable first week at work, veteran Officer Jacobs finally got himself that cup of coffee. Jacobs sat in the passenger seat of the patrol car spending the rest of the day thinking about the peculiarities of that crime scene. He wondered why a man committing suicide would have to put up such a physical struggle to keep from killing himself and where such a strong scent of lilacs had come from.

Familiar

The floor is cold. No. Wait. It’s my cheek that’s cold but why am I on the floor? I swirl my eyes behind the lids as my arms lethargically crawl to either side of me. When I push myself up off the floor I rub the sleep from my eyes. It’s not a normal kind of sleep. It’s different this time. I sit up and get my bearings. Ah yes, my apartment. But it looks different. The world seems to be draped in its own shadows and everything around me seems to be decaying in a wind I can neither feel nor hear. However I do see the edges of everything flickering about as if they were being eroded by the aforementioned ghost winds. I get to my feet and it’s difficult to stay balanced. The sky, for whatever reason, burns blood red and the clouds look to be running from the sun itself. As I walk begin to walk I feel my feet stick to the floor beneath them and I realize that while I know that this is my apartment I’m not entirely sure who I am.

My first instinct is to look at my hands. They seem familiar and unfamiliar and something seemed to bind to my wrists. I pull the sleeves of my sweater up but there’s nothing there. My hands start to tingle and go numb. My breathing quickens as does my heartbeat. Well that’s disconcerting as well. My lungs fill with breath but it doesn’t feel as if I’m breathing. I can feel my heart beating against my chest, the blood pulsating through my veins as my temples expand and contract in a panicked rhythm but I don’t feel as if it’s my own heart pumping. My fingertips grow cold and it feels as if the bones within my hand burn like coal smoldering in its own ashes. I curl my fingers into a tight fist but the invisible binding on my arms just dig in deeper and squeeze tighter. My mouth opens as my eyes shut and I hope to scream but before I can a whisper catches my attention.

“Return,” the voice says. I could have sworn it was a voice that whispered directly in my ear but as I turn there is no one there. My cheek, the one that lay flat on the ground, grows cold. A dull pressure scratches at the opposite cheek. I can feel my scalp itch as something scratches at it. I try to swipe but there is nothing to swipe at.

I see something shimmering on the coffee table and I walk towards it. The object is a picture frame and the photograph within has two people in it. One of them is me only I had much longer hair. And the other is a man. He’s quite handsome but I can’t quite place—ARGH! The binding on my wrists dig in deeper and a dull pain drills deep in my chest driving down to my gut. I feel claws begin to dig at my palms. My reflexes wave my hands in a vain attempt to shake whatever is scratching at me. But I’m not entirely sure if the scratching was entirely malicious which both scares and reassures me.

The tip of my index finger feels cold but not like before. It’s as if some object was barely being touched against it; a ring, perhaps? But I don’t see a ring. I can somehow hear it. Perhaps if I put my finger to my ear I can—now I can’t breathe! The pressure around my neck is tightening and my throat is near collapse. It’s as if I only have enough energy to either breath or fight against this force choking the life out of me. My temples begin to ache. My ears and the tip of my nose burn as the rest of my head starts to go numb. And my eyes feel as if they are about to pop out of their sockets when all of a sudden I hear the whisper again.

“Not time yet,” the voice whispers as I feel four cushioned but strong prongs jolt hard upon my chest. The impact of whatever that was released the hold from me neck. My throat was very tender as I tried to catch my breath.

“Who are you?” I ask the voice. There is no response. I start coughing violently, my lungs still recuperating from whatever it was that was choking me. I walk to the kitchen and get some water. I know the liquid is pouring down my throat but I can barely feel it. It’s almost as if I’m in some sort of a dream. Am in a dream? “Is that what this is? If it’s a bad dream I want to wake up now!”

“Kara!” That voice calls out to me. I recognize the voice but just barely. Who is it? My friend? The man in the picture? A brother, perhaps? I can’t believe I’m forgetting so much of who I am. This is ridiculous. I want to cry but first I have to get out of here.

“Am I Kara?”

“If you can hear me Kara, I’m going to need you to return.”

“Return where? How?”

“I promise it won’t end like this!”

“Who is that? Hello?”

“I know you can hear me. I can’t hear you but I know you can hear me!” There was another gentle scratch on my cheek. The other grew colder again. Finally, I’m getting some answers! “This is very important but you need to get up!”

“I don’t know how to! Tell me how to get out of here!”

Suddenly I lose grip of the glass of water in my hand. It slips and shatters on the linoleum floor of the kitchen. I lean back and close my eyes and remember seeing the man in the picture grabbing me by the arms and squeezing. I gasp and open my eyes gripping my fists tightly realizing that a knife had materialized in my hand. I fall to my knees as if being pulled by an unnatural swell in gravity right where I was standing and I can remember being thrown to the ground by that mysterious man. I remember his name is Peter.

Peter approaches me in what can only be described as a memory that I, for whatever reason, am being forced to recall. He wraps his hands around my throat and squeezes as hard as he can. Remembering the knife in my hand I swing as hard as I can at… my husband. Peter is my husband. I keep the knife between him and me but he raises a hand at me anyway and swings before I can swipe the blade at him. I fall to the ground, dropping the knife as my cheek, the one that kept growing cold, fell onto the ground.

“Get up! Now!” The voice implores. “Now! NOW! NOW! MMMEEEE-OOOWWWW!” The pokes and prods of my cat manage to finally wake me up. I can’t help but cry. I feel the hot tears streaming down the side of my face realizing that the man that was to be my husband nearly killed me.

I gasp and cough violently as the world of shadows and blood disappear like a nightmare. I taste blood in my mouth and my cheek, once cold, is now tender and bruised. My chest rises and falls as I breathe in slowly unsure if I should feel horrified or relieved. I look at my hand still on the floor. My wedding ring still dangles from the edge of it. I must have tried to unconsciously pick it up again and only managed to get it on to my fingertip.

My cat stares at me and places a paw on my leg as I sit up. It is the same cushioned paw that swiped at my hair and pushed against my cheek. Somehow she knew to jump on me to get my attention. She then curls up against my leg and she purrs as I stroke her fur. I pick up the ring with my free hand and look at the diamond with such disdain and disgust that I throw it back on the floor before finally getting up to call the police.