Fiction logo

Blue Rose

Who is it?

By Shauna MullenPublished 2 years ago 5 min read

Rachel had finally finished her last session of the day. Today had felt like it went on forever, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She knew today was going to be hard, it would have been his birthday today. Rachel says goodbye to her client and swiftly closes the door behind them. With one deep sigh, she rushes over to her journal to process her emotions. She always got taught to practise what she preaches. He taught her that. This should make her feel better. It has every other time.

“Dear Dad,

I can’t stop thinking about you. I hope they are treating you well in heaven. At least that’s where I hope you ended up. I got another gift today and I thought it would be for you. It would have been your birthday today after all. I think it was from one of my clients. They keep sending me inappropriate gifts, I think they have an unhealthy obsession with me but I don’t know who it is. Morgan warned me this would happen if I kept working as a mental health therapist out of our home but I can’t bring myself to be anywhere else. I keep hoping I’ll remember more of you if I stay in your old home. I keep getting the same recurring dream of you. We are sat on a beach with nobody else around us. Complete serenity. The only thing I can see is a sail boat on the horizon of the ocean. You tell me you love me and I wake up. I can’t remember anything else. Why is that my only memory of you? Why did you have to go and die? You would think I would be over it by now , 20 years later but my 7-year-old self won’t let me.”

Suddenly, Morgan interrupts her train of thought.

“How did today go?”

Rachel looks at her newly-wed husband and struggles to get out the words. She knows how he is going to react but she has never been good at keeping secrets from him.

“I got some flowers today, blue roses, my favourite”

Morgan scowls.

“I didn't even know they are your favourite flower so what else are you telling your clients that I don’t know? We are married for fuck's sake”

Rachel doesn’t know how to respond; she just looks at Morgan with a blank stare. Morgan waits for a response. When he realises he isn't going to get one he leaves her in a pissed off tantrum and slams the door behind him.

She knows she should be worried about what Morgan is going to do. He's never been good at keeping sober when he is in a mood. However, Rachel can't seem to stop her mind from racing. Who knew that about her? She can't remember telling anyone that? Suddenly, the bang of the door abruptly pulls her out of a wandering train of thought. The clang of an envelope coming through the front door startles her. A pink envelope with her name on it. She doesn’t recognise the hand writing and she knows if it would be her client's. She gets them to write every session.

Rachel starts to debate with herself if she should open it. She finds herself frozen in fear. Did they wait for Morgan to leave? Why does this happen when it is only her in the house? After contemplating what could be inside for a while, Rachel rips it with trembling hands to find a photo of the sail boat she always remembers in her dreams. With no hesitation, she swings open the door as fast as she can hoping to find whoever left the envelope. Nobody is there. Why did she think they would stick around? She took ten minutes just to open the envelope. Why was she disappointed to find nobody there? It’s probably for the best, this guy could be dangerous. She goes to close the door and her eye catches something on the welcome mat. A singular blue rose and a note that says “I love you.”

Rachel snatched the note and the rose from her front door. She couldn't take the risk of letting Morgan see it. He was in enough of a rage without this adding to their problems. After one more glance around to see if anyone was around, Rachel turns around and locks the door behind her. She doesn't want this lunatic to be able to get in the house. She is alone after all.

As Rachel turns around, she notices a figure sitting rather comfortably in her dad's old armchair in the corner of the room. She can't get any words out. She wants to scream at them and tell them to get out but the only thing that leaves her as she opens her mouth is silence. Instead, she finds herself walking towards the chair even though she doesn't want to go near him. Her curiosity is too powerful and seems to be the only thing controlling her body in this moment. As she gets closer to the chair her vision starts to get blurry. Is she crying? No, she'd be able to feel if she had tears in her eyes. The closer she gets the less she can see until suddenly, it's completely dark.

Rachel wakes up and realises she is tied to a chair. She can't move no matter how hard she tries. She looks around in the abyss of the pitch black room she finds herself in and attempts to make out any familiarity in the area. She can't. She doesn't know where she is. Rachel screams out for help.

"Let me out of here you bastard"


The room is now poorly-lit by an old TV in front of her. It starts to play footage of her and her father. She has never seen this video before and how come she can't remember any of it? It's clearly her on the screen and her dad looks exactly how she remembers him in her dream. Why can't she remember? Tears make her way down her face and splash on the ground.

"Stop." She whispers defeated.

The TV turns off and she is alone in the dark room again. Alone with nothing but her thoughts. No matter how hard she tries, she can't seem to remember anything but the beach with her dad. She can't remember anything of what she just saw. As she slumps her head down and comes to accept her fate, the door swings open. A tall, slender figure makes their way towards her but Rachel doesn't look up from the floor. She has accepted death. She has already decided not to fight. Until the man speaks and she recognises the voice.

"Rachel." The man says towering over her.

She looks up in disbelief.


Short Story

About the Creator

Shauna Mullen

I like to write about true crime and do small investigations. I also write fiction sometimes

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights


There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2023 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.