11
THE POISONER
For the first time since waking, I was able to slip away.
I went to the only place that made me feel safe.
The botanical gardens in the city reminded me much of the one back in London.
A grand glass fortress guarding some of the most beautiful exotic plants from around the world.
The warmth was perfect, the humidity swaddling around my body, bringing color back to my cheeks .
. . or perhaps they were burning. The environment was clearing my sinuses and working to ease the rattling in my lungs.
It smelled wonderfully of wet dirt, pond water, and pollen. I could be locked in this glass cage and be happy, like a prized macaw.
I tried to dress as best I could for the outing despite my new wardrobe being made. A deep forest-green dress with small black beading around the trims. I thought it would be nice with the flora. Of course, I was right.
Towering palms and exotic fruit trees, showstopping blooms of hibiscus and orchids, birds racing along the ceiling unbound to the paths paved just for us spectators.
Then there was my favorite, the carnivorous plants.
While I missed my poison flowers, I hadn’t seen some of these specimens before.
They were bright reds and yellows, sharp teeth or monstrous-looking appendages. They were entirely delightful.
I leaned down by the indoor pond, inspecting the red flower bulbs among pitcher plants. A small sign stuck to the lip of the stones. Sarracenia purpurea.
The purple pitcher plant.
Among them were bladderworts and trumpet pitchers. On the other side of the path, circling the pond, were flytraps, sundews, and assorted hanging pitchers. The supporting plants were mainly banana trees, Monstera species, and other tropical marvels.
“Be careful, they eat meat,” a small child said matter-of-factly beside me.
She couldn’t have been older than five. There wasn’t even any eye contact when she spoke, just staring scrutinously at the plants.
“Well, insects. I think we are safe,” I said.
The girl looked at me, her eyes naturally strict, untrusting. Yet she was talking to me, sharing this concern.
“Then why do they look so scary,” she asked, “just for bugs?”
“Maybe they just want to be left alone. Being scary is almost as good as blending in.” I smiled, though I looked past her, wondering where her caretakers may be.
“Then why are the plainest plants poisonous?” She frowned.
I clasped my hands over my lap as I knelt there, taking a long think on it.
“I don’t know,” I sighed. “To keep everyone guessing?”
The child knelt down, her hands pressed against the ground as she leaned over the edge of the pond to peep into the pitchers. To be a child is to be endlessly curious and infinitely unaware. Pure bliss.
All was well and calm. The two of us spent many minutes in silence enjoying the curiosities around us.
Though her presence was making me increasingly more nervous. There were some people inside the glass house, but most seemed to be picnicking on the green space of the property under trees and other sources of shade.
A sharp stab in my stomach.
It was a piercing pain, an emptiness.
I felt sweat build on my forehead and I wiped it with my wrist. The more I tried to convince myself I was fine, the more the sickly grip tightened on my throat.
I wondered if I would expel or faint, neither was something I wanted to do.
I swallowed thickly, trying to look up at the ceiling and tell myself I was okay.
A small splashing sound.
The girl was playing in the water.
Liquid sounds of sloshing and wades turned to pumping and throbs.
I stared at the child. She reached out into the shallow pond for a lily pad, one with a flower that matched her purple dress. The curls of her fine brown hair fell over her shoulder, brushing against her neck. Pump. Pump. Pump.
She splashed again.
Heat burned at the front of my face, and suddenly everything got so hot, so vivid.
My eyes strained periodically, then more frequently, as if syncing with my heartbeats . . . or with her pulse.
My stomach turned and lurched.
I was so hot.
So agitated.
Ravenous.
I left quickly, running from the overstimulation, all the colors, the light. I had to hide myself under a weeping tree on an outer path. Under the cover of thick trees and shrubs of the greenhouse, I could be in peace until I was well again.
With palms pressed to my face, I took deep, grounding breaths.
Stop. You’re all right. Nothing will happen. Calm yourself.
I reached over to a holly bush, chewing on the bitter leaves to stop my body from making me chew on something else. My palms were clammy, I couldn’t stop shaking. I was colder than before with this sudden sickly spell.
“Ma’am,” someone said.
I pulled a few more leaves from the bush.
“Ma’am, you can’t eat those, they’re poison . . .” Is someone speaking to me?
Reluctantly, I looked over my shoulder.
A man in coveralls, supposedly someone who worked for the garden. When our eyes met, he looked as if he was faced with some nightmare.
My eyes were burning, every color was so bright, every sound was so loud, and the light was straining my eyes.
My mouth itched, I could barely feel the bit of spit running down my chin.
He moved quickly.
But I couldn’t stop it now.
When he stumbled back, I grabbed him by his clothing, slamming his chest against mine before I went for it.
His throat.
My fangs scraped forward, the sensation of shifting teeth made them itch, the urge to sink them into his throat was too great—and it was done.
The pressure of my canines sinking into his skin elicited a whimper from me, and the soreness eased. Then a pop as they dug through the trachea, and his throat was crushed.
My mouth flooded with blood, the warmth not registering until I gulped. Each swallow sent a flourishing warmth through my limbs.
But then it hit my stomach.
I crouched even as my teeth were still latched, the blood spilling over my chest and sputtering across both of our faces. Then most of it came back up and I was forced to let him go. I coughed and spit, splattering against the cobblestones and painting the white azaleas.
I heaved, struggling to catch my breath. My hands shook as they pressed against the ground, the blood filing neatly between the bricks of the walkway as it spread.
No one was around.
I placed my hand on his chest, shaking him.
“I’m sorry,” I sniffled. “Please—oh, God,” I bit my lip.
His body slowed its twitching to a halt. His eyes wide open to the sky. Dead.
And it was my fault.
I stumbled through the staff exit.
There were extra bags of dirt, stacks of buckets, then my saving grace—a garden hose.
The water ran clear when I cranked the spigot. With my hand, I scooped water and wiped my face, my chest—thank goodness the dress was a dark shade of green, or else the blood may have left an obvious stain.
My fingers rubbed my ears and between my breasts to leave no crevice unwashed as I fought the drying of the blood.
A high-pitched screech from inside.
I walked quickly around the corner, heading to the front of the building. Visitors walked in couples or in groups as they marveled at the fountains. The splashing was still nauseating me.
Like ants to honey, one by one the crowd began to move toward the greenhouse, some coming back outside to report to their families what they’d seen.
Soon the subtle murmurs turned to clamor, then havoc.
The staff corralled the visitors out of the botanical gardens, giving no other explanation than they were regrettably closing for the day.
I was frozen in place. Should I leave? Would it be suspicious if I was the only one not wanting to find out what the scandal was? It could be too dangerous to stay, but I don’t think I could keep my wits up enough to look unassuming.
I refrained from touching my dress, in fear the stain would show on my hands. My trembling hands forced themselves into the black gloves, fingers getting stuck and caught as I pulled.
The tin wail of a siren just outside the park. It could be for anything, but I knew it was for me. For what I’d done. The crowd became a restless mob, demanding to know what interrupted their tourism.
They fell quiet when the rubber boots came marching in, the white-gloved men eased us back, marking off the entrance.
All I had to do was be still.
Something tugged at my skirts.
My eyes shot down to the ground. The little girl from before had grabbed my skirt to steady herself as she peered between the spectators.
All I could focus on was her little hand.
Balled up in my dress.
And the red stain that she would see on her palm next.
I couldn’t stay.
The policeman was walking down the line.
She must have felt it, the stickiness on her fingers. I watched as her little hand left the cloth and she went to look.
I grabbed her hand and looked up; the policeman had glanced at us, just not long enough to see.
She looked up at me, complete puzzlement on her face.
I held my finger to my lips, a gesture for silence.
The moment the police joined the staff behind the glass doors, I released her hand.
That is when I took my leave.
The little girl did not follow me, or call me. Neither did any other witness as the gawking herd hovered nearby, distracted by their own insatiable curiosity.
The walk home was just as much a flurry as the incident itself.
My boots were cutting into my ankles again, the sores from yesterday reopening.
Luckily I was never alone, shrouded by a cover of characters spilling into the streets for lunch.
All I saw was a sea of heads, some hatted and some feathered, some just hair and some with parasols.
The longer I walked, the more I slowed as I realized there was no humanly possible way they could be on to me. Between the sheer number of people and the fact they probably were least expecting a woman behind such a crime, I may have been safe.