Deceased Bloomings

Chapter 1

January 2, 1854

He tasted like the flowers. Smelled like them too, perhaps. Although, he wasn't much for my preference. He was too clean, too perfect. Nevertheless, he was considerably satiating. Personally, I'd prefer the ugly ones. The dirty, filthy ones that reek of sweat and untidy flesh. The ones that have less than even a shred of humanity left inside of their useless corpses. I don't have a real reason why; I don't think I need a real reason. Frankly, it simply provides me interminable pleasure.

I'm not a monster of some sort, I promise.

That's a lie.

I think this is the part where I tell you all about my life story and how I ended up in this ghastly sorry excuse of a home. But if you tilt your head, and squint your eyes real hard, you'd realize that there really isn't much to tell, I'm afraid.

Yes, there is.

I ate my mother when I was five.

* * * * * * *

Timothy wordlessly shut the small book closed and groaned in irritation. His disheveled footsteps were undeniably obstreperous in comparison to the silent hymn of the empty padded cell. It was a lousy profession, as most would say, but you'd never know what you'd find in a desolate psych ward. As Timothy grabbed a can of bleach and his trusty orange mop from the chalky, pale flooring, he strode towards the doorway. His wrinkled fingers clenched tightly onto the rusty old door knob, as he inwardly sighed. Ridiculous, he thought, glancing back at the diminutive black leather booklet.

As Timothy stalked down the barren corridors, they screeched. Whether it was downright agony, or just that demonic delight of screaming at the top of your lungs for no reason whatsoever. It was quite humorous at times like this.

They're insane.

They're completely, utterly, and perfectly insane.

January 23, 1854

"She needs to be taken away." they say. SAID.

"She needs to be taken away because she ate my son." they say. SAID.

"She's crazy, George. She needs to be taken away." they say. SAID.

I'm not crazy. I'm really not crazy. They say I'm crazy, but I'm NOT. Sometimes I hear whispers. I like the whispers. They tell me to do bad things, but I love it.

Frequently, I am told that I am sometimes dangerous and that is why they lock me up in here.

I spent most of my childhood in a poorhouse. Or, strictly speaking, I spent most of my childhood in a nauseating pig stool filled with dirty, delicious human meat.

Initially, my meals were held in silence. Other than potatoes, the food consisted of a thin porridge--gruel, the unappetizing, unsatisfactory dietary staple of the poorhouse.

Abuses in the house were widespread and very well-documented. A pregnant woman had even died on the steps due to exhaustion and starvation.

That's two in one. What a waste.

* * * * * * *

Timothy gradually swallowed the enormous lump that was presently swelling in his throat. Previously, approximately a week, 3 days, and 22 hours back, the elderly custodian had fallen upon a small, primitive photograph.

It was the girl, that's for sure.

The peculiar image had certainly proved to be befuddling. Her attire consisted of a modest frock from lace, and milky stockings to match ivory clogs. Her hair was elegantly fastened into a small bun , and the girl's arms were linked onto her mother, Myrtle Puttick.

Her name hadn't seemed to be written on the front portion of the photograph. On the contrary, it had appeared to be scrawled onto the back, adjacent to a small, ludicrous drawing.

ROSEMARY PUTTICK, 1849.

There were two monsters. A demon and a girl. The demon was marked satanic and hellborn, all while Rosemary was drawn immaculate and clean handed.

But there was a disgusting secret.

In littered and scribbly handwritten words it simply said: I CAN'T SLEEP, MOTHER. 

* * * * * * *

"Oi", exclaimed an unidentified voice. "You're shift's over, Tim. Go home."

Timothy turned to meet eyes soaked in anguish. Pale, cracked lips and a broken smile. A coarse rag hung from the man's gauntly fingertips, and a pail of murky, discolored water hung from the other.

Harrison Wilfred was what they called him.

"I haven't covered the mezzanine yet. You can head on home, Harris," Timothy murmured, having still not digested the photograph of Rosemary and her deceased mother.

Harrison merely left the elder man with a careless shrug, a subtle pat on the shoulder, and left with an indecipherable mumble of disappointment.  

* * * * * * *

Orderlies were not crazy. Orderlies were not insane.

Timothy Garrett did not eat homosapien meat. Because, Jesus Christ, that would be inhumane.

Timothy Garrett was not Rosemary Puttick.

March 5, 1856

Monster. Monster. Monster.

That's all I am now isn't it? My filthy, dirty label. The MONSTER. Bloody cowards, that's all they are. Tell me, are you afraid now? Are you afraid?

Are you afraid, mother?

Do you remember when I plucked your fingers off?

Ah, what luxury. Oh mother, you were just wonderful. The way the hot tears ran down your ravishing countenance every time I nipped at your arm. The way your arms rattled every time I gnawed at your stomach.

Oh, and then Father left, did he not? That gutless funk. What cowardice. They told me that it was my fault he was punished. They told me that it was my fault he ran away. They told me it was my fault his hands and feet were pinned to a cross, and that it was my fault he died a slow, and painful death.

Crucifixion, was it?

Mrs. Fidelia used to tell me that it was okay to feel angry sometimes. She said it was okay, mother. Must I be blamed for everyone else's confounded sluggishness?

Please tell me where you are, mother. I need to know, because at night I cannot sleep. I seek the satisfying warmth that radiated and commenced from you, even at your coldest. I seek the sweet, mellow nothings that you use to whisper into my ears.

"Don't fret, Rosemary. Don't fret, my child. And please don't cry because at times it is just earsplitting, dear. Please do not cry."

Please do not cry, mother. Please do not cry.