The Flower
The trash bag rustles as I toss old bandages into it, instantly feeling a weight lift off me. I won’t be missing you, I think, as I wave goodbye to the worn cloth. The scrapes and bruises have mostly faded, leaving behind last week’s tortuous evidence as if it never happened.
I’ve been beating myself up about it every minute of the day, thinking how I could have done more. I know it's not good for my mental health, but I am scared shitless that it can happen again. Think of the paranoia I had before, and now times that by a billion.
I turn, leaning over the doorway from my bathroom and glance into my bedroom.
A small, warm smile perks up as I gaze over the endless amount of bouquets I received from my stalker.
And by endless, I mean it. There has to be over twenty-something bundles that are filling up every space in my room.
You can hardly see any furniture. I’ve even resorted to placing a few in the living room and kitchen.
I don’t think Z minds it. At least she hasn't said anything to me. I know she still thinks this guy is a complete creep and doesn’t understand why I’ve been accepting these love gestures with open arms. What else am I supposed to do? Throw them out? They're too beautiful.
It’s kind of endearing and slightly amusing that they're all the exact same bouquet. Green dahlias, big and small, surrounded by greenery and baby’s breath. The apartment has never smelled better, and I kind of don't want it to end.
He even accompanied the last bouquet with a photo of me surrounded by the flowers. I looked like I was floating in a pool of dahlias. It caught me by surprise. But a good surprise. He must have taken it when I was asleep. I’m still unsure how to feel about him and what he's doing for me right now.
He has also been leaving me notes, reassuring me that he’ll catch whoever did this to me.
He even includes vivid, passionate, and unsettling details about what he plans to do once he does.
A part of me feels concerned. I don’t want him to kill the man.
Do I want him to pay for what he did? Yes, but in some other way. Some other sane way.
I don’t think there is any convincing my stalker, though. I do appreciate him being angry, even though it is hypocritical. After all, he forced himself on me too. I think he forgot that. Or maybe not. Either way, this is all too much for my brain to process at once.
I have work in about an hour. I took last week off, and Parker was not happy with me.
He thought I was calling in for some me-time.
There is no way I’m going to tell him what happened.
I owe no one an explanation. My excuse was that I fell and sprained my ankle.
Obviously he didn’t believe me, but that is a him problem.
The last thing I want or need is everyone asking what happened to me. I can feel the anxiety festering just thinking about it. I could cover my arms and legs, but I couldn’t cover my face. The splits were too noticeable.
My clients probably hate me for not seeing them this past week. That part makes me feel so guilty. It practically eats me alive. I’m always there. Maybe they will understand. They should understand, right?
Z thinks it's too soon for me to go back. If I don’t, I will wallow in my self-pity for eternity.
Work will help distract me, anyway. Plus, my schedule is now overloaded with clients being rescheduled.
I’ll now be seeing double the amount of clients, which means long and late days all week. Perhaps it will be good for me.
I brush my long, wavy hair before splitting and putting the upper half in a black bow clip.
We’re supposed to dress professionally, but this adds just enough personality to satiate me.
I slip on black cat-heeled boots to tie my look together.
I'm wearing a long green maxi skirt and a ruffled black top. If I were a librarian, I’d bang me.
Before I leave, I check the kitchen counter one last time.
It’s empty. It seems my stalker is causing me to form a new habit.
I grab one of the bouquets to take with me.
They will be perfect for my office. Not just for my clients, but because it might make me feel a little safer, knowing I have some deranged, unhinged man protecting me.
That sounds bad, but not any less truthful.
My bag slips from my grasp onto the carpeted floor as I struggle to get the glass doors open to the office.
I hold the bouquet tightly, refusing to let it fall, while I prop the door open with one foot.
I pick my bag up haphazardly and uncoordinatedly turn around.
Great, I probably look like a fucking mess. I notice Layla watching me.
“Goodmorning, Layla! I’m glad to be back. Are you ready for a busy day?” I say with a chipper tone. She responds by giving me an unsure nod. I guess a nod is answering my question. I give the desk two taps with my hand as I pass by.
“Okay, great,” I say, turning and heading toward the hall and into my office. She is probably angry with me for forcing her to reschedule my week. It’s part of the job, hate to break it to her. Plus, I’m sure I beat her in the anxious department.
I set my bag on my desk, and the bouquet on the coffee table, enjoying how perfect it looks there.
I smile, looking at its beauty. I have a lot to catch up on.
Eight clients in one day is a lot for me.
I never cram my schedule because I love spending time with my clients and am very thorough with my charting after each session.
I don’t like to rush. I would hate to make anyone wait any longer to see me though, so I am more than happy to do this for them.
I can do this. This will be good. Good for you and good for everyone.
I take a seat at my desk as I reach into my bag for my laptop.
I open the schedule for the day to prepare myself for the chaos that lies ahead.
I look through the names one by one, noticing all my clients from last week not missing the opportunity to be seen this week.
We also have those who were already scheduled. No one cancelled.
“Great,” I say sarcastically.
“Great what? Great, that you’re back?” My head whips upward at the sudden intrusion. Parker is standing in the middle of the doorway, unamused, and I’m not surprised. If you do anything he does not condone, you're on his shit list. I wonder if that's why Kyle is always in a bad mood.
“Yes, I’m happy to be back. Thank you for letting me have last week off.
” I say in a sugary-sweet tone. He doesn't say anything. He just stands there with his arms crossed, sporting his comical authority. I sit in the uncomfortable silence, not knowing what else to say. His chin perks up as he walks my way, and I feel a sticky sense of dread erupt down my spine. I knew I was in for a scolding; I’m confused as to why he hasn’t yelled at me yet.
Normally, this is where he would threaten to fire me.
“A sprained ankle, huh? You needed a week off for a sprained ankle?” he asks condescendingly.
I know it’s a rhetorical question. He’s just baiting me.
Don’t worry, I won’t bite. He circles my desk, reaching his left hand out, tracing the edge as he comes closer.
I watch the excessive gesture cautiously.
My body wobbles as I feel the turn of my chair. My hands grip the armrests for balance, ensuring I don’t fall over as if I’m on an unstable rollercoaster. I'm met with a repugnant smell as Parker leans in toward me, too close for comfort before he spits out.
“You and I both know you weren't out with a sprained ankle, Dahlia. What we can do is talk about the real reason you missed a week’s worth of seeing clients for the next hour, putting you behind on your schedule even more, or you can let me take you out to that dinner we discussed.”
Oh, fuck. I forgot about that. Why didn’t I say no, again? Screw my people pleasing tendencies.
Oh, right. It's the fact that he’s my boss and I wouldn't put it past him to fire me if I say “no.” Isn’t that fucked up? He treats me like a mouse, waiting to capture me in his sick, narcissistic cage. He probably has some weird work fetish or something. I want to barf at the thought of it.
I kick my feet out, pushing the chair and myself backward a foot. Rather than moving, he just gives me a grimy smile. I stand, trying to sport any ounce of authority I have in return. I clear my throat before responding.
“I don’t think it’s appropriate for a boss to ask an employee out for dinner.
” I eye him, gauging how he might respond.
My pulse quickens. I fear this is the end of my time here.
I can list twenty pros and cons. A pro would be that I wouldn't have to deal with Parker anymore, but a con would be that I’d miss out on not being able to see my clients anymore.
I have formed such an amazing bond with each one of them.
“Would you rather I fire you to justify the action of two individuals conversing over a meal?” he suggests. Is this my out? Should I just say fuck it and move on with my life? I can’t. I’ve worked so hard; it can't all be for nothing.
“Of course not. When would you like to go?” Looks like the cat caught the mouse.