Murder and the Marigolds

My best friend was allergic to apologies.

Anaphylactic level allergic. Deathly allergic. In the 21 years that we had roamed this earth together, he had not once taken accountability for his misdemeanours, and let me tell you, there were many. His pride was far too overpowering for that. Kye Flinders admit error? Never!

As his best friend, I understood this, came to terms with it. So he never apologised, it didn’t mean he was a bad person. Often times I made excuses for him, even go so far as apologise in his place, but eventually, even I had enough.

Truthfully it was my fault, I led him to believe it was acceptable to not apologise. In my defence, Kye had a very tough childhood, so I used to let it slide if he messed up when we were younger. But now it had become a lifestyle choice of his and I had no way of undoing the mess I created. Bad habits truly did die hard, or in this case not at all.

Marigold flowers were his calling card. When he messed up, he would disappear. Fall off the face of the earth for days, weeks, even months. However long it would take him to forgive himself for the sins he had committed. Then when he was back in town, he would leave a bunch of bright, bumblebee yellow, marigold flowers on my doorstep so that I knew he was back. It was his way of preparing me for his return.

But this time there were no flowers. It had been a year. The longest he had ever gone missing and for once in my life, instead of being mad that he was gone, I was scared.

I used to hate those stupid yellow flowers. They were a symbol of his immaturity, a symbol that I would once again have to pretend like he didn’t cross a line, a symbol that I would have to forgive him no matter what he did, sans an apology. How ironic that I would now do anything just to see one of those stupid yellow flowers.

What did he do that garnered that long of a disappearance? Murder.

He murdered my fish.

I’m a little dramatic if you can’t tell, but I loved that fish. It was my last present from he who shall not be named. The man who didn’t love me enough to stay. I loathed him, but I loved that fish. And Kye knew that. What kind of idiot cooks with a fishbowl next to the stove?

I was mad at Kye, don’t get me wrong, but I wasn’t mad enough for him to be missing for this long. I expected a day, a week at most. But a year? That was too extreme, even for him.

As I waited for his return, worst-case scenario Kylie entered my mind. What if he was dead? Lost? Injured? Kidnapped? I mean he had certainly pissed off a lot of people in his life. Dear God, what if someone murdered him! I mean he hadn’t done anything too extreme to me, I was his best friend, he loved me. But to other people? To other people, Kye had lied to, cheated on, stolen from, even attacked. What if this was like a Gatsby situation and some man had shot Kye for having an affair with their missus?

My thoughts became more troubling and deranged as time continued. Dramatic people like myself should not be left with their own thoughts. When I had just about had enough of the waiting I received the phone call.

“Will you accept a call from the Wattleview Correctional Facility?” an automated voice crackled through the line.

I felt like I was gulping down stones instead of saliva as I hesitantly said yes.

The voice that answered sounded foreign, so firm and unwavering. Yet I knew that voice so well. It was Kye. He only channelled this stone-cold, valiant persona when things were really bad. It's what his estranged, criminal father used to do when we were younger. Kye despised his dad, but he respected his durability, so I knew that if he had resorted to this, I would have to prepare for the worst.

“Kylie, I messed up. You need to find my dad, he’s the only one that can help.”