(Tope’s POV – The Girl Who Became Rose)
The smell of lemon is everywhere.
It clings to the walls. It seeps into the sheets. It lives beneath her fingernails, even though she hasn’t touched a real lemon in months. Every corner of this house carries the scent. Sweet. Acidic. Clean. Too clean.
She’s forgotten how many days it’s been.
In this place, time is a stranger. The curtains are always drawn. The lights never go off. The air is too still, too careful, too controlled. Like everything else in John’s world.
He calls her Rose.
Not Tope. Never Tope.
Tope died the night she stopped at that BRT terminal, trying to take a shortcut home after work. Tope disappeared when the needle went into her neck, and she woke up here—bathed, shaved, dressed in white, and renamed.
She once fought him. Screamed. Bit his arm so hard he bled. That was in the early days. Back when she still had fire. Back when she believed someone would find her. Now, her voice is quiet. Her eyes don’t fight. She has learned the rhythm of obedience.
Because here, obedience keeps you alive.
Until it doesn’t.
He’s different today. He hasn’t said much. His hands trembled slightly when he brushed her hair. That always meant something. A trigger. A shift.
He made her sit on the flower-printed cushion in the "clean room." Told her to be still. Told her she looked beautiful today. His voice was soft, too soft. Like a lullaby soaked in acid.
“It’s time, Rose,” he whispered, almost lovingly.
“You’ve bloomed enough. I want to remember you just like this.”
Tope—Rose—doesn’t cry. Not anymore. Crying gives him something. Power. Pleasure. She stares at the lemon-scented floor. White tiles. No stains. No signs of the others.
But she knows.
They were here.
Tulip. Daisy. Iris.
All plucked. All erased.
He returns holding the knife.
It’s not long. Or jagged. It’s new. Clean. Stainless steel. Still in its package when he bought it last night on one of his “walks.” She heard the wrapper crinkle through the thin walls.
He kneels in front of her like he’s about to propose.
“You were my calmest flower,” he says. “You made me feel… peaceful. But peace dies when the bloom fades.”
“I have to let you go, Rose. You're too quiet now. Too soft.”
His hand touches her face. She flinches. It doesn’t matter.
She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t beg. That only makes it worse.
He lifts the knife and places the flat side gently over her heart, like he’s trying to feel it beating one last time.
“One... two… three…” he whispers.
Then he plunges it in.
Not once. Not fast. He stabs slowly. Deep. Then again. Then again. Seven times, like always. Blood soaks the white dress. Her body folds into itself like a dying petal.
He lays her down gently on the clean couch. Eyes open. Mouth slightly parted.
“You were my Rose,” he says, tears pooling in his eyes. “You were perfect.”
He stands. Walks into the kitchen. Wipes the knife clean. Opens his drawer and takes out a fresh journal page.
He writes:
"Rose has bloomed. She was lovely. Quiet. Worthy. But now I must find another."
In the distance, through the sealed windows of his private estate, Lagos carries on.
Laughter echoes faintly from a neighbor’s party. The world spins. Phones buzz. Cars honk. Life breathes outside.
And somewhere in the dark edges of the mainland, Sarah is about to step outside to relieve herself—unaware that she's about to become the next flower.
YOU ARE READING
BLOOM OR DIE
Mystery / ThrillerSarah only stepped outside to pee. She never came back. Now she's trapped in a house no one knows exists-on a private road no one drives through-with a man who doesn't see women. He sees flowers. He renamed her Lily. He waters her with blood. He say...
