Lilies

She loved the privacy of her home. A single-family home, unremarkable among the dozens of others nestled side by side along a sparsely traveled street. She wanted the interior to be cozy. Red bulbs in the chandelier, soft pouffes, a comfortable, spacious sofa, a carpet so soft to the touch you could lie on it for hours, admiring its ruffles in the slight draft between the crack under the door and the half-open window.

A window beyond which lay a garden, full of roses planted in a row along the path, young cherry trees growing nearby, a greenhouse on its edge, and lilies planted right next to the house. Their sweet scent filled the bedroom every evening, creating an ethereal atmosphere.

It was after sunset. The air was heavy. She gently lay down on the made bed. The duvet rippled slightly, so pleasantly cooling after a long, hot day. She inhaled the scent of lilies, breathing deeply, and listening to the sound of her husband's shower. The sound of the water soothed her. She coughed. Something clicked. It was definitely too stuffy.

Outside, birds suddenly took flight.

The overwhelming aroma filled her lungs, making her feel irritating.

She felt hot. The first trickle of sweat ran down her cheek from her forehead and hit the pillow. She decided she needed to open the window wider. Slowly, she rose to her feet, stood, walked over, then grabbed the handle and pulled.

But nothing happened.

She tugged harder.

The window wouldn't budge an inch. She was surprised; she'd left the window ajar. How could she have found it locked at that moment, and locked for good?!

Locked.

She flinched. Something scraped against the door. She rushed to it. Now it, too, was locked. The overwhelming scent of flowers grew stronger by the moment. She felt faint. She turned toward the window and froze. Behind the glass stood a tall man in a tight black cap and leather jacket. He held a can of some kind, with a thin rubber tube emerging from it, the end of which was inserted into the gap between the windowsill and the frame. From the tube's mouth streamed wisps of dark pink smoke.

She began to scream and pound on the door with her fists. The pungent smell choked her and pierced her lungs. Her next scream was muffled by another coughing fit. She ran to the table, where a vase of her beloved tulips and an alarm clock sat. Her legs gave way. She collapsed onto the table, knocking it over. The vase shattered, and the alarm clock began to blare. She heard the doorknob being pulled. She glanced toward the door and tried to scream, but the growing aroma prevented her from uttering a single syllable. Everything was drowned out by a cough and the frantic shriek of the alarm clock, which grew louder.

Someone began pounding on the door, then tried to force it open. Something rattled on the hinges.

She glanced toward the window. The man with the can was watching her with curiosity and indifference in his eyes.

She grabbed the already blaring alarm clock and threw it at the glass. It didn't reach her. She was too weak now, she needed air. She began to crawl toward the door leading to the terrace.

Another bang on the door.

The lock gave way. Her husband burst in. He saw her lying there, semi-conscious, desperately looking at him. The man behind the glass twitched. He snatched the pipe, quickly tucked the can into his bosom, and began to run.

Her husband ran to her. He opened the terrace door and pulled her outside. Finally, she felt air and began to breathe deeply. Meanwhile, he was chasing the madman. He saw him run into the greenhouse. He grabbed a shovel lying by one of the rhododendrons and went inside. It was stifling, even more so than outside. The tall flowerbeds blocked his view. All he heard was the hiss of the lawn sprinkler in the garden. He took a few steps, carefully holding his shovel in front of him. Ahead was the alcove where he kept his equipment. He spun around. The man in the cap sprayed some kind of gas in his face. He was momentarily blinded. A moment later, he lost his balance and fell straight into the alcove. He felt pruners, rakes, shovels, and fertilizers fall from shelves and racks, burying him under their weight.

His stinging eyes flashed with a blurry image of a man standing with a knife by the pots of anthuriums he had purchased and planted that year. He tried to move, but his legs and arms were paralyzed. He tried to lift his head, but he hit one of the shovels.

Meanwhile, the man had cut several massive flowers, then spoke in a silky voice.

"Anthurium. A beautiful houseplant. It needs a fairly high temperature and humidity." He cut another flower. "Yes... this one looks beautiful. You can see it." Anthurium andreanum, larger flowers, straight spadix… long-lasting after…" another red petal fell into his hand, "…cutting. And they are more valued as a component of floral arrangements."

He crouched down next to the man with the flowers and brutally pried open his mouth. The man tried to close it, but the man held his jaw tightly. With his free hand, he crushed the first flower and forced it down his throat. The man began to choke, but the madman ignored him, then crushed the second and did the same to it. Panic and helplessness gripped the man. He felt the use of his limbs slowly returning, but he feared it might be too late. The man in the cap released his jaw, stood up, and walked over to the pots of gerbera daisies.

The man, meanwhile, moved slightly and violently spat out a crumpled anthurium. Meanwhile, the madman glanced at him, cut off several gerbera blossoms and roses growing nearby, and then knelt down. He quickly and forcefully grabbed his face, opened his mouth again, and began to force the damp remains of the anthurium deeper into his mouth. Then he forced a few rose heads into his mouth. He took the gerbera blossoms, crushed them in his hand, and continued his psychopathic work.

"Gerbera care… we constantly keep the soil slightly moist." He grabbed a nearby bottle of water, unscrewed it, and began pouring it onto the man's face. "We fertilize every week…" He looked through the multitude of bottles scattered across the soil, then selected one and poured the brown liquid onto the flowers lodged in the victim's throat. "...and every spring we transplant it to a plump,..." He took out a knife and tore open one of the bags of soil, "...a humus mixture..." He lifted it and tilted it, burying its contents over the man's body from the feet down, stopping at the neck. "...or standard soil with sand." He scooped some soil from the neighboring pot and stuffed it down his throat. If there were any gaps through which air could reach him, they were being filled with the ubiquitous earth. His eyes bulged. He tried to spit it out, but the man in the cap kept pouring it in. Suddenly, he stopped.

He groaned. He staggered. The man lying there didn't know what was happening to the madman; he was beginning to lose consciousness. He saw the tip of the blunt blade pierce the executioner's chest. The psychopath was completely surprised. The blade retracted, then pierced the body in a second place. Someone twisted the murder weapon and delivered another blow. This time, the madman collapsed among the empty water and fertilizer bottles, muttered softly, and died.

Moments later, the man lost consciousness, but before he did, he saw his wife, pale and terrified, holding a bloody pair of pruning shears.

He still smelled the lilies.

The scent of death.