Bloodsoaked Blossoms

Emberly

My eyes flutter and try to open. Everything is bright, painfully bright. My head aches. Everything is blurry. Instinctively, I rub my eyes. That doesn’t help. Now my face is sticky. What is on my hands? Slowly my eyes adjust to the sunlight and begin to focus. I still wish I had just kept them shut and given in to the darkness trying to envelope me. My hands were bloody. It wasn’t my blood. Next to me lay my sister, her white sundress stained red with blood and a knife protruding from her chest. Her face was turned toward me, wide lifeless eyes bore into me, accusing me. The once beautiful marigold field where we spent so much time as we grew up was now a gruesome sight. The yellow blossoms were soaked in red blood.

I relive this scene continuously, trying futilely to recall something new. What else do I have to do in my cell? I had told my story, but no one believed me. Even I had to admit that the evidence against me was overwhelming. I was the last one seen with my sister and we were alone far away from anyone to hear her scream. There had been Hallucinogens in my system and my fingerprints were the only ones on the knife. However, I felt there were two glaring holes in this supposedly air tight case. One being that I don’t do drugs and two being that I loved my sister. There is no way I would have willingly taken Hallucinogens or done anything to harm my beloved little sister.

Today as I make my way out into the yard for leisure time, I notice that there is something new being offered. I go over to see that we have been provided with soil, various seeds, and pots. There is an elderly gentleman guiding other inmates through choosing seeds and planting them. Catching my gaze, he gestures for me to come over and join those already circled around him. I accept his offer. I’ve always enjoyed gardening and nature in general. I take a deep breath fighting back tears as a memory of decorating flower pots with my sister creeps into my mind.

Forcing myself to focus on the present, I turn my attention to the elderly gentleman who introduces himself as Mr. Whitlock. I thank him for inviting me over and ask him what seeds he has available. With a kind smile, he begins pointing to the packets and saying their names. He provides a little information about each as he goes.

Suddenly, all the color drains out of my face as he points to a packet for yellow marigolds. I try to keep control, but feel the tears wet my cheeks anyway. Mr. Whitlock surprises me by offering me a handkerchief from his pocket. He begins going on about how plants can be like friends and how important it is to treat them kindly. Then goes on to ask me if I had lost a marigold or if they were simply part of an emotional memory for me.

I was taken aback by this man’s kindness! Did he not realize he was speaking to criminals? “It’s okay. I truly want to know. I believe we should treat all living things with respect and kindness. I would not neglect one of my plants, so why do you look as if you expected me to ignore your pain?” I am so overcome with emotion that I have to take a moment before I can speak. After all this time, was someone honestly going to listen to me as a person who was grieving instead of as a murderer making up lies?

When I finally regain my composure enough to speak, a dam within me breaks and I begin telling Mr. Whitlock everything. I spare no detail and hide no pain. I pour all the anger, sadness, and love I feel into my words. I go back further wanting him to understand our relationship and what a huge part plants played in it, especially marigolds. He doesn’t interrupt me or shut me down. He simply listens. I see no judgement in his eyes, though it does seem like he is pondering something. When I am done he thanks me for sharing with him and asks the most random question. “What was your address before you came to live here?”

Thinking he probably intends to bring my parents a plant and offer his condolences, I provide the address. He encourages me to plant a marigold as a tribute to my sister and to help heal my complicated feelings about them. I agree and begin the familiar process as Mr. Whitlock moves away to guide the others who are not as knowledgeable about planting. Before we are required to go back inside, he labels each of our pots with our names and reminds us of the responsibility we have taken on. “You now hold the fate of a living thing in your hands. Your past doesn’t matter. Just what you choose to do with your future. You are still capable of helping these tiny seeds grow into beautiful plants.” His words are very inspirational.

Mr. Whitlock

As I drive home, I can’t get Emberly’s story out of my mind. I could feel her sincerity. She did not belong where she was. She deserved to be at home with her family, planting a memorial garden for her sister. I turned my truck around. I would not put off until tomorrow what I could do today. As I pulled up in the driveway, I tried to get my thoughts together. How do I tell these strangers that I believe their daughter and know I can prove her innocence without sounding completely insane?

Then I hop out laughing to myself and walk up to the door with confidence! At my age, being insane is an expectation not a problem! People don’t even question me anymore when I tell them most of my best friends are in the ground! I knock and am greeted by a confused looking middle aged woman. Before she can speak, I launch into who I am and why I’ve come. She shuts me down hard and asks me to leave. “Why would you come here and bring up such a painful topic to a complete stranger?” she yells.

I calmly ask her if she minds me exploring the meadow her daughter spoke about. She tells me she doesn’t care what I do as long as I leave her be. I get back in my truck and move it just a bit down the road to a gas station. Then I get out and begin my trek. Based on what I’ve been told by my friends, it will be a long walk to the marigolds. Following the guidance of my friends, I reach the field in a little under an hour. It is a hidden gem nestled in a clearing deep within the forest behind Emberly’s house.

For a moment, I simply gaze in awe at the beauty of so many blossoms in one place. Then I kneel and bow my head in a moment of silence for Arianna. Still kneeling, I open my mind and welcome in the consciousness of marigolds. I greet them and introduce myself then begin asking about Emberly and Arianna. My new friends share the stories passed down by the generations of blossoms before them. I then reach out to the surrounding trees who would have existed when the atrocity occurred.

I keep my mind open to allow the ancient trees to share their knowledge and guide me to the truth. I carefully and quietly move through the forest. When I have what I need, I return to my truck and give the police a call. It is time for another of my anonymous tips. The following day I smile triumphantly as I see the face of the real murderer appear on the news with the headline of “New Evidence Surfaces for Cold Case”.

Emberly

I can hardly believe it when I am told of the new development. After an anonymous tip, the police discovered the hideaway of the true murderer hidden deeper into the forest. Using DNA preserved from the crime scene, they had been able to prove my sister and myself had been there. He had confessed to watching us, drugging us, and taking us back to play. I had a good trip and complied with his games. My sister had a bad trip and fought back. He brought us back to where he found us and stabbed my sister as punishment then posed us so that I would look like the obvious suspect.

It feels so surreal to be back in my home. My parents are awkward around me and I find myself spending a lot of time with Mr. Whitlock at his plant nursery. He offers me a job to help me get on my feet. Eventually, interactions with my family become less strained and we are able to mourn together. With the creation of a garden in Arianna’s memory, I finally feel like we have closure. I stand back feeling happy tears on my cheeks as I look down at the yellow marigold in the center grown from the tiny seed Mr. Whitlock gave to me while I was still an inmate.