Yes, Someone Keeps Leaving Flowers On My Front Doorsteps

“Can I buy you another coffee?” I said to the man I called Desperado.

Walking to work I often saw Desperado. He also shared a room at the Victorian house.  He hung out at the local coffee shop otherwise he hit the booze.  He symbolized the furthest I have been away from California dreaming. That song synchronized embarrassment every time it played on the radio,

“All the leaves are brown and the sky is grey. I’ve been for a walk on a winter’s day. I’d be save and warm if I was in LA, California dreaming on such a winter’s day”

Rochester New York is humid-hot-thunder storms in the summer and cold in the winter.  Walking through tunnels made of snow made me shiver; sometimes the two native american chiefs were lying on the street. One evening they recited Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven.  Broken bottles framed around them as they shouted,

“We went to the best colleges in the country!” They made me laugh.

I just listened and observed that autumn and winter. The only time my eyes lit-up is when I went to the local bar. One, two, three, four shots turned upside down. It was not to set me up for a quick date. It was a friendly gesture of east coast drunks.  I felt safe here where the men danced together.

My white nurse outfit and white nurse shoes took me to the untouchables of the city. I was not cared about, so I tried to care about others, those that were almost-dead to the world.

One late evening while walking back to my apartment from work, a New York detective greeted me. The neighborhood was blocked off with yellow tape.

“Nurse could you step over here I need to talk to you?”

“I am not a nurse.  I work at the local Visiting Nurses Association as a Home Health Aide.” He then asked where I lived and I told him.

“Miss, a woman was murdered across from your home. Have you noticed anything unusual over the last few days?

“Yes, someone keeps leaving flowers on my front doorsteps.”

He smiled, but Mr. Detective did not seem interested and then said quickly,

“A body had been dumped in the large trash dumpster across from where you are now living… we need you to call this number if you see anything usual.” He handed me his card.

I was screaming in my head as my heart raced,

“That dark alley…  the one I pass almost every night!”

I had enough of those Serial killers on the west coast.

Did they have to follow me here as well? I was not so far away from home as I imagined.

Darkness is everywhere.

20 responses to “Yes, Someone Keeps Leaving Flowers On My Front Doorsteps

  1. Well that’s crazy scary! Do you still live in that neighourhood! And the flowers are extra creepy!! Yikes!

  2. Your blog is a trip. A vivifying and wild trip. This story was really something. I like your pacing and your voice.

  3. How totally creepy! I have so many questions about who all the people were. Who was Desperado really? Who was the woman? Did they catch the killer? Very suspenseful! I wish I were back in CA. I moved to NJ 2 years ago.

  4. OMG. I hope you kept your doors locked!

  5. I like how this moves from the fanciful to the terribly-real, and the moment when the detective blows off the flowers-by-the-door info. I just wanted to shake him and say, “Hey! Pay attention to her!”

    • Thank you raiisinglvy, I really burn the candle on making my work flow. It seems this particular killer only went after prostitutes.. I was of course a Home Health Aide…ya he was a detective that did not make me feel safe.

  6. Life is that way …sometimes..

  7. Powerful and freaky – a great read! And what was up with the flowers??

  8. I asked everyone… even the guys at the bar….no one knows…. it is a mystery. My days in New York were very interesting, Thank you!

  9. I always put the flowers in a vase on the kitchen table… they were nice flowers.!!

  10. Great use of details, you painted a vividly clear picture! Just glad you didn’t describe the body 🙂

  11. I did not see the body… and Thank you..!

  12. You are such a lovely writer. I’m sorry it was such a dark story though.

    Amy

  13. Reblogged this on The Seminary of Praying Mantis is about the written word, the esoteric, punk rock and beyond…and at times an Oxymoron ! and commented:

    One of my favorite stories.. scary and great reading for this time of the year…

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