Saturday Morning Mystery

The red liquid looked like blood. But she couldn't be sure - and who has blood in a glass on the table? Certainly was difficult to tell with two teen and two adult children in and out of the house on a daily basis. She felt her own blood boil a bit at the tired thought that she was constantly cleaning up after other peoples’ messes. After all, she’d wiped the counters down and swept the floor right before going to bed! She picked up the glass, didn’t have the stomach to smell it this early in the morning before her regular bowl of oats and nuts, she seemed to run on low blood sugar and generally felt faint before getting her morning protein. She rotated the red glass in small circles and saw how there was a film forming around the edges—coagulating just as blood would and it was obvious whatever it was, it was much thicker than beet juice. Could someone have poured paint for an art project in one of her nice glasses?

She’d wait at least until after eating her breakfast to investigate more. She yelled up the stairs to her youngest asking if he knew what this blood mess was in the glass? In a confused voice, “what blood?” No, he hadn’t seen it when he’d gone to bed and she heard him walking down the hall to look out of her bedroom window at the street below and letting her know the other cars were gone and because it was a weekend night, they probably hadn’t even come home last night.

Hugo loved flowers and everyone knew this. She brought him some calla lilies for his birthday last night and he’d gushed in front of all of the other guests making a big deal to put them in a vase, traipsing through his visitors who were now happily buzzed, talking loudly or in tight circles complimenting one another’s attire, and another group growing larger as they discussed the latest financial problems caused by “you know who,” surrounding the Astoria Visual Artist’s residency program.

She thought how glad she was now that she’d gone out to her garden at the last minute with scissors in her hand, silk blouse on, and shoes she’d been careful not to sink in dirt in order to cut a few of the brilliantly blooming May flowers because she had thought it rude to show up for a birthday party with nothing in hand, even though she knew most wouldn’t bother bringing anything. Seeing his glee was much more than the small effort deserved, and well worth it. Everyone deserves to feel loved on their special day.

LeRoy, who worked at David’s hair salon, gave her a big hug, seemed to want to get on this dramatic flower show that now seemed to be taking over the entire living and dining room scene. People stopping their tight conversations, even those smoking giant marijuana cigars were looking up from the couch and the guitarist playing quiet jazz in the corner commented how his mother had adored lilies.

Crying is bliss, she’d once heard someone say and later she’d learned at a Bill Plotkin underworld journey workshop, from a woman who called herself Anam, that one really ought to be moved to tears on a daily basis as it is indicative of heart-centered living. So when LeRoy, later cornered her as she was making her way down the tight hallway admiring small silhouette’s done in neon paints, and started to weep openly she was okay with this intimacy. He started with his mother and then how his father was an abusive truck driver who came home every now and again to raise hell, throw his mother around and call him a faggot. She’d looked into his brown eyes and she herself began to feel her own tears rise to meet him. She’d finally had to excuse herself after nearly an hour of standing on shag in pumps, her back stiffening.

She thought about the night before while finishing her oatmeal. Her conversation with LeRoy and his violent youth, while she again picked up the glass she’d now set in the sink and dipped her finger in, smelled, and it was indeed blood! Her mind reeled in its efforts at figuring, but nothing came to her. She dialed her daughter, who didn’t know what she was talking about and then her eldest, but he neither. Why was there some part of her that suspected this blood had something to do with last night’s event? Some more grown-up version of the movie Carrie? She told herself to stop being so paranoid, but…

Above is written for freewrite house contest with three prompts (that aren't always that easy to sew together)! Fiction is new for me, so fun to try it out.

Photo credit: Leslie Davidson/unsplash