ｃｈｒｙｓｓｉｅ

ｓｕｎｄａｙ

Sunday was supposed to be a holy day.

Grayson didn't believe in anything holy.

The first and only time he had stepped foot voluntarily into a church, he had been seven years old. The church had been old and made of gray stone - like one of the old ones that you might see in the ancient parts of England.

He remembered the frigid air and the smell of perfume that old women wore. 

He remembered the roses that sat up front and the soft murmur of the bishop's words as he spoke.

He remembered the tears that had made trails down his chubby, seven-year-old cheeks as he watched the unfamiliar men in black suits and tall hats carry the coffin out to the graves, where her body would rest for eternity. A cold

He remembered the feeling of his grandmother's sharp nails digging into his arm, creating indentations that wouldn't leave until the next morning. The bruises across his shins would stay for much longer, going from purple to blue to green to a sickly yellow, and then right back to purple again a few days before they were gone. 

(keep quiet, or I'll give you something to cry about.)

Most of all, he remembered the lifeless image of his mother's face, her lips painted pale pink, her wild red hair placed in perfect curls, her long, black lashes spidery against her pale cheeks, her eyes closed, never to open again.

They had made her look like everything she was not, and Grayson hated them for it.

There was a rosary resting around her neck that Grayson had taken off when no one was looking, and oh had he been punished later when it was found in his suit pocket, but it was worth any injuries he got because he knew that it was something that she would have hated. She had never been religious after all, always expressing her wishes to be cremated and scattered across the world in all of the places that she loved.

He couldn't stop her from being buried in the churchyard, but he could take the symbolism from her body and adorn her in the flowers that the loved right before her coffin was closed.

She had been too young, is what the bishop said, and Grayson had agreed silently.

And then, when it was all over, he shoved the memory into a place it would never be touched again.

~

Thunder tumbled through the gray sky, raindrops smacking against the glass windows and rolling down them. Lightning flashed, and not for the first time in her life, Chryssie felt fear.

She hated thunderstorms. She always had, and probably always would. Her mother thought it was strange and had tried taking her to a psychiatrist when she was four, but Chryssie had refused to speak, instead staring at the floor for the entire scheduled hour.

(That was the last time Charlotte had attempted to find psychological help for her daughter.)

Unfortunately, Chrysanthemum was incapable of controlling the weather. So there she sat, curled up in an armchair and staring at the telly, trying her hardest to ignore what was going on outside. When the doorbell rang, she got up and opened it, assuming that her mother had forgotten her keys that morning. But when she opened the door, it wasn't her mother.

It was Edmund.

He stood there, lanky, leaning against the doorway for support, lip curled up into a snarl as he stared at her in her state of shock. She found herself wanting to scream, but couldn't find her voice as she tried to slam the door tightly shut. However, she was no match for him - she never had been - and the door banged against the wall as he forced it open, kicking it back closed and advancing. She backed up nearly as quick but found herself trapped between him and the wall. A quick dart to the kitchen was impossible, but she tried it anyway, calculating poorly in her panic.

He slammed her against the wall so hard the picture frame above her shook, and she could smell the gin all over him - she had learned to distinguish the scents a long time ago, though it would hardly help her then.

"Leave," she said, trying her hardest to keep her voice level.

don't make him angry, don't make him angry, don't make him angry - 

"The fun's just getting started, though," he replied, words slurred but menacing anyway.

"Get off of me, Edmund."

"Let's play a game."

He was right up in her face then, eyes flashing, lips curling back into a wide smile -

And she kneed him hard between the legs, sprinting for the kitchen as he groaned. He caught up quickly, though, and her cellphone's screen shattered as he tackled her, wrestling her to the ground.

"I like you better this way, you filthy little bitch. You'll pay for that."

And it seemed as though she really was about to pay for it, his hand raised to slap her hard. But he was drunk, and she was not, and he didn't notice her head coming up to meet his nose until it was too late.

Hot blood spurted out. She could feel it drench the roots of her hair, dripping down her forehead, and she wanted to retch, but had no time for it.

She forced herself away from him and ran out of the house, sinking to the pavement as she raised the shattered screen of her cell to call the police, pale pink water dripping down her nose.

She sat there until they came, and by that time, the gutter had carried away the blood, rain washing it from her hair.

(If only the rain could wash away the fear as well.)

~

Grayson first heard the sirens when he was in the middle of reading a book. His interest was slightly piqued by this, enough to drag him to the window of his bedroom and look out. His eyes spotted them immediately, parked outside of her home, and his anger spiked.

He was there.

Grayson recognized him immediately, a burning hatred in his chest. He was being dragged away by an officer, and Grayson found himself hoping that that little, cock-sucking bastard of an ex-boyfriend would rot in prison.

If not, he would have to make do other ways.

He looked down at the book in his hands as they forced him into a police car, and in his anger, he had crushed it. The pages were crumpled underneath his fingertips.

An unfortunate waste, but it would still suffice.

~

Chryssie kneeled on the kitchen floor, scrubbing at the tile so hard her fingers felt trapped between her palm and the ground. The smell of blood permeated the air, thick and heavy, so she poured more bleach and kept scrubbing until there was no trace of him left in the house. She went over it once more for good measure before tossing the rag in the dirty laundry and shucking off her gloves in the sink. she pulled out her earbuds, tucking them into her pocket before turning to go and take a shower. 

And she saw them.

They were sitting on the counter. An entire vase of them.

It was a collection of wilted flowers, sitting on top of a crushed copy of The Great Gatsby, a note laying with them, a neat bookmark between pages. She picked it up anxiously, eyes drawn to the familiar handwriting.

These flowers may have wilted, but my love for you will never die.

Love,
Your Secret Admirer

She frowned, folding it in two before taking a closer look at the flowers.

They were chrysanthemums.

a/n
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