Kill Me When You Go

By A. Sanders

Lost in the bustle of New York is a florist shop owned by the ever eccentric and quirky Scarlet Ferriera. In the wake of the traumatic death of her husband, she loses everything. Her identity. Her passion. Her will to embrace the future. Join her on a journey of self examination where she explores the cause & effects of her actions and inner self with a raw honesty that will leave you shaken.
Will the darkness overtake her?
Will she fade away into nothing?
Or will she rise from the ashes of her former self into a brighter and more mindful future?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781365650611

Book preview

Kill Me When You Go

Kill Me When You Go

A. Sanders

Copyright © 2017 by A. Sanders (Toren)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written consent of the publisher. Except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-365-65061-1

For Marty

The one that took me by the hand and made me dream again.

Prologue

Daisys & tulips?.. No.  Roses?.. No. Daffodils and lilacs?.. No. Combine them all together? No! No! No! The hand that held the flowers beat them on the well-worn bench until all the petals had fallen onto the floor. The mistress of the florist shop sat on her stool with the decapitated stems beside her and put her head in her hands. Her fingers massaged her forehead until they tangled in her long red hair. She left them fisted there as if she was hanging on for dear life. Her hair was a mop of unruly curls that hadn’t been tamed in days, curls that matched the unruly nature of her discontent heart. She picked up a pen and began to doodle on the corner of her notebook. The page bore the deep etching of her black pen as she crossed off the different failed bouquet arrangements in hard angry strokes. When she began to write, it was absent of thought and devoid of concentration until she was simply disconnected from herself entirely, which was the nicest feeling she’d had in days…

Do not be dismayed by the brokenness of the world. All things break. And all things can be mended. Not with time, as they say, but with intention. So go. Love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally. The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.

-L.R. Knost

Chapter 1

People always say to write about what you know. What do I know? Well, not much. I can tell you that right now. I’m just Scarlet. Just a walking contradiction named Scarlet Grace. Most of the people I know on this earth call me Scarlet but a handful residing in heaven always called me Grace. Amazing Grace. The baby my mother never thought she could have. I know, right? Clique. It doesn’t end there. I also have vibrant red hair that I wear long and wild. And my name is Scarlet. Yeah, I know but trust me, this is only the beginning of my problems and contradictions.

I’m 24 years old. I own a flower shop called The Blooming Blossom. It doesn’t use the first letter of the alphabet because the best name Phillip could come up with that started with a was Apricot Aprons. I told him that was a ridiculous name. Like we’re some sort of bagel shop café with mocha latte frappe what-cha-ma-call-its and French bagel croissants. And to use the same letter starting each word like some prepubescent schoolgirl? Why the whole idea was absurd. But do you think Phillip could be dissuaded from this terrible clash of poetic absurdity? Of course not. So here I am wearing an apricot apron, sitting at The Blooming Blossom, listing out everything I know. And I don’t know a lot! Not that I don’t not know a lot. Really, when you think about it, this is all his fault anyway.

That Phillip was nothing but trouble; and the trouble with Phillip was that he wasn’t any trouble at all! He was perfectly wonderful with his crooked smile and his dark hair and his chocolate eyes. With his poetic anomalies and his good natured jibbery. Why, it was just absurd! Have I mentioned how absurd it was? He would walk by a perfect bouquet of daisies and pluck one petal from every other flower just because he knew the imperfection drove me mad. And he would chew much too loudly at dinner when I wasn’t paying attention to him like a spoiled man-child. And he would always forget to bring a towel into the tiny bathroom in our apartment above the flower shop. He knew the towels were in the closet outside the bathroom door. He knew! But every day he forgot, just so he could drag me half clothed...or fully clothed… into the shower and kiss me while I squealed indignantly. Do you see? Do you see what I mean? The man was absolutely indecent. Not that he cared. Not that he even pretended to care. Him and his crooked smile and his devilish tendencies. Let me tell you the trouble with that Phillip…

The true trouble with that Phillip…the absolute worst thing about that Phillip… is that I miss him. I miss him with an intensity that doubles me over in pain as it saws me in half. That’s the real problem with him. And when I finally stop thinking about all I know, that’s not a lot but that’s not not a lot, I am going to turn off the lamp and lay my head down right here at this work bench. Because the thought of walking up the crooked stairs like his crooked smile, past the bathroom so tiny that it doesn’t hold towels, is so daunting that I can’t stand even the mere thought of it. And the phone, well damn the phone. I don’t know why it keeps ringing. The closed sign hasn’t moved in two days, so why does that damn phone keep ringing?? I swear if it rings but one more time, I will rip it from the wall and drown it in the sink. Nothing no longer moves because he doesn’t. Even the flowers lay wilted and dead beside me. So why does the phone keep ringing?

Tomorrow.  Tomorrow I will go bury my ever troublesome Phillip. Tomorrow I will bury everything that I love and I will have no flowers in my hand. I will have no child of his by my side. I will have nothing but a name to remember him by. And what a silly name it is.  Ferreira. What a ridiculous name. Not quite as ridiculous as if it had been Phillip Phillips but in the top three for certain.  …But it’s a lovely name, isn’t it? No flowers to bury him with. He would not be very impressed with me. Sitting here in my apricot apron behind the closed sign with dead flowers and a drowned phone. He would not be impressed at all. But he would laugh. And he would smile indulgingly at me because he always liked my temper or when I fell into a good pout. And I am pouting now. Am I ever pouting now…

And right then and there, in the middle of a perfectly good thought, I put down my head and I begin to weep. Big noisy sobs that almost drowns out the sound of the phone that continues to ring.

I have often wondered who would name their child Phillip, with the only plausible nickname being atrocious. Phil. I shudder to think of it. It makes me think of someone who is short, fat (borderline obese) with a bald head, fat fingers and a big jowls. Like a bulldog. Of course, my Phillip was none of those things. So he was always Phillip to me. He was tall, strong and fit with a thick mane of dark brown hair that shone almost black in the light. He had the most chiseled jaw line and strongest chin you have ever seen. Like a warrior. I had made the mistake of telling him that once, one I never made again. Arrogant and pompous. He didn’t mind looking the part of a warrior any more than I didn’t mind looking at it. But really, who would name their son Phillip?

An imbecile. That’s who. With her beady little eyes, still luscious hair, perfectly white teeth and her little twit smile. Amaridelle is her name. And who names their daughter Amaridelle for that matter? It’s like a long line of daft imbeciles with little twit smiles. We would have named our child a name that was both fitting but lovely. Unique and divine. Strong, yet compassionate. We could have… but I can’t think about that anymore. I can’t think of that ever again. We will never have a little half daft baby with a half twit smile. We will never combine our blood into one new blood. And that’s just something that I will have to live with.

She never liked me, you know. Amaridelle. She said my background was too weak, my family line too diverse and she never met a redhead who was obnoxious enough to be named Scarlet as well. Who names a redhead Scarlet anyway? It grates me to know that my judgments for others cannot solely be passed out to the world alone without turning on me. So here I am, the walking contradiction. When Phillip told her of our engagement, all she said is that I would never give him a child and he would die alone. I don’t know if I hate her more for her rudeness or her prophecy.

I find I have a lot of hate inside me today. A lot of anger that I cannot put a name to that makes me want to return Amaridelle The Twit’s phone call and tell her in just the same rude manner that she asked my answering machine that no, as a matter of fact, she cannot have her son’s things. And no, I have not sorted through his belongings. Nor do I intend to. Not right now or quite possibly, not ever. And I want to tell her what a horrible wretch she is and I want to slap her on the face with a glove. I do not own a fancy lady glove but if I actually come up with the bravery to act on this desire, I will surely go buy one. It would be worth every penny.

Still, I sit. My hair disheveled, my apricot apron wrinkled in the little tiny florist shop my husband named The Blooming Blossom. And I do not call Amaridelle The Twit back or delete her message from the answering machine. I leave it there to fuel my anger when sorrow and despair creep in. I leave it there to remind me of all the people who are to blame for my Phillip being torn from my side. Not strictly Amaridelle, if I felt like being honest, which I am not saying that I do, but there are many others that share the blame. Perhaps share more of the blame than she. And there is the part of me that wants to hunt them down and find them. And I want to make them feel my pain. I want to make them feel my suffering. I want to look into their eyes and I want to humble them with what they see in my own.

But that is a small part of me. It’s a small part of me derived from the madness that the pain causes. A part of me that I keep in a plain and ugly box that is locked with three keys and safely stored three rows back on the bottom self in my heart. I never give in to my red headed temper. I never let the anger bleed as it craves. Well…not never never, but almost never. Phillip would purposefully provoke me. He found the fire in my blood delicious and the temptation to rouse me into anger was often too much. How many times had he taunted me until I moved to pound my fists on his chest? Again and again, I walked into this trap. Giving him what he wanted which was getting me close enough that he could capture me and no matter how I fought, he wouldn’t let me go. I push away a tear when I think of these times. The playfulness has died along with him and all the light. I sit in the dark. I do not see the way out. I do not look for it either.

The phone continues to ring and ring. As if it will never be abated. The answering machine clicks on and always with the same tired voices.

Scarlet, where are you?

Scarlet, pick up!

Scarlet, I know you are in here, I can practically see you ignoring me

They take it personally. Like I am sitting here screening my calls, planning whose calls to answer and whose to ignore. Still I think, why do I not take the phone from the wall? Why do I not bash it into pieces or toss it in the sink? But then the phone rings again and the answering machine answers the call and I hear his voice. His deep rumble like velvet. So soft that it purrs over my skin. My skin tingles when I hear it. I sit entranced, taking in every word, every syllable, like a withdrawing addict finding one last drop left in a dirty needle.

You have reached Scarlet and Phillip at The Blooming Blossom. We can’t come to phone right now but please leave a detailed message and phone number and we’ll call you back. Always have a good day

Phillip didn’t believe in having bad days. He only believed in having good ones. Every day was what you made it. Every day was what you chose. There were bad or imperfect moments but that didn’t have to lead into a bad day. He was such an optimist. It’s nauseating how he saw the world in such bright colors. …But it’s really quite lovely, isn’t it? That’s how I used to see the world. He showed me a world that was full of color. More color than I had ever seen in my life. More color than I had ever read about in my well-worn fairy tales. He made my life vibrant... And then he took it away. The bastard took it away! All the colors, all the vibrancy, all the happiness, he took it all away.

Every. Single. Shred. Of. It.

This is his fault. I told him… I BEGGED him… But then the recording is over and I feel empty. I feel as if two invisible hands are prying my heart from my chest the whole time I hear his voice. It’s painful. Oh, so painful. But when it’s over, I feel nothing. I feel empty. I feel lost. There is no ‘me’ anymore but just an empty, hollow shell. I stare at the wall. All the flowers are wilting. Dying. Absent my loving hands have been from them. I feel love for nothing. I just stare at the brightly colored walls that look to me just as gray as I feel inside.

Chapter 2

Today is the day. Today is the day I wish for death. That I wish for vengeance. That I wish for a miracle. None of this happens. Instead, I walk down the aisle past three rows of chairs with no flowers in my hands. My dress is black. It fits more loosely than the last time I wore it. My veil is black and covers my pale face. It fits the same. It fits like a mask to hide behind. And my only wish in this moment is that it would smother me the way I feel it wants to.

All eyes are on me but I look nowhere but at the ground. The coffin is before me hoisted above a dug grave. I do not look at it. I feel as if I may vomit. My feet move one after another. Amaridelle is sitting in the front row on the right, so I turn to the left and sit (collapse?) down on the first chair I see. They are all empty but the one my mother sits in. No one wants to sit by me. I do not look at anyone. I do not want anyone to sit by me.

The pastor talks in a slow and rhythmic voice. I hate his voice. It is nasally and ugly in the way that it makes my head begin to throb. I feel as if I have a three-day-old hangover but I haven’t drunk a drop of anything useful. I wish I had. I look around unseeing; the faces all look the same. Does someone have a flask? I wonder this idly. I do not stand up and ask. If only because the effort it would take to do so seems to be too much.  The pastor continues to talk and it makes me seasick the way it roils off his tongue. I wish he would stop. I don’t look at the coffin. I do not look at the coffin where my husband is locked inside. Forever inside that small enclosed space. I find myself wanting to claw open the clasps and free him. To beg him to come sit by me... I clasp my hands in my lap instead.

Then there he is, leaning against the casket. Phillip is smiling at me with his eyes twinkling. I gasp. My mouth is open. No one dares to look at me in concern but they want to. I can sense it in the way they are fidgeting behind me.  I don’t care. I can’t stop staring at him as the tears stream down my face. I close my eyes tightly. We’re dancing in the moonlight of an old ballroom. The room is full of dancing guests and bustling waiters. The snow white of my wedding gown is swirling around my ankles. My neck and shoulders are exposed, my wild, red hair cascading down my back in waves, my head is back and I’m laughing. I look up to see Phillip staring at me hungrily. He tells me he can’t wait any longer. He leads me onto the veranda with a devilish look in his eyes. He pulls me deep into the shadows with him and he lifts up my wedding dress and puts it in my hands. I’m breathing heavily from the exhilaration of this moment. I’m holding my gathered dress at my hips, my back pressed against the cool stone of the enchanted building. Phillip covers me with his lanky frame, pushing his muscular body against me as he kisses me hard on my neck. I can no longer think as he seduces me with his magical touch. When he says, You’re mine, all the playfulness is gone from his voice. Then he…."

By the time I open my eyes as the memory becomes too much to bear, he is gone. I feel a sense of loss all over again. I look around in confusion. I can’t help myself. I know he is gone but the pain is going to swallow me up into the giant chasm that is before me. Oh Dear Lord, help me! I cry out but no sound fills the air. The strangled words only resound over and over in my mind. I’m clasping and unclasping my hands. Over and over. No God answers. No God ends the pain. No God brings Phillip back. I’m biting my lip nervously. No one looks at me. No one has the courage to look at me.

The pastor stops talking and then someone is before me. They are talking to me. I don’t understand what they are saying. I can’t look at them. I don’t look at them. They put something in my hand. I don’t know what it is. Is it flowers? Don’t they know that all the flowers are dead? That their petals have been beaten from their slender stems in my florist shop? No flowers are good enough for my Phillip. No flowers hold enough meaning to represent this horrifying day. Is it flowers? I can’t tell. I turn up my head pitifully and see a man standing there in a uniform. I fight the urge to vomit again. I hate uniforms.  Now someone is taking my elbow. I don’t know who it is. I can’t make out the faces, everyone seems so far away. Am I dying? Am I the one that’s dead?

It feels like a dream. This can’t be reality. They are leading me to the casket. I tell them I’m not ready. I balk, I try to break free but no one seems to notice. I realize that I am letting them lead me. I want to cry out that I’m not ready. I try again and again but no sound escapes. I’m standing before the casket. Are there flowers in my hand? Do they expect me to lay them on the casket? Whatever it is in my hands falls to the ground as the casket suddenly comes into focus. And then it’s just Phillip and I. I can’t see Phillip. My Phillip. I need to see him. I want to break the clasps. I want to free him.

I place both hands on the casket. I begin to tremble as I lower my forehead to the hard surface. I lay my head and hands on the top of his wooden prison and whisper how much I love him. I whisper how much I miss him. I whisper that I can’t say goodbye, that I’m not ready to say goodbye, that I am not strong enough to say goodbye. Then there is a hand on my elbow. They want to tell me it’s time.

It is not time.

I am not ready. I am not ready. I shrug them off as they try to lead me away. I’m not ready. I shrug them off harder. I hear the crowd start to murmur. I don’t care. Someone takes me by the shoulders and tries to steer me away from the coffin. I shake them off. I’m making a scene. I know I’m making a scene. I don’t care. I can’t stop.

I’m not ready! I manage to say. The fear swells up within me. I panic. I can’t bury him. I can’t bury my husband. I’m not ready. I’m not ready. The people ignore me as they whisper soothing words I can’t understand and try to take me away. No. No. No! I take them by surprise when I suddenly break free. I throw myself on his coffin. I’m starting to sob. I’m becoming hysterical.

Take me with you! I plead with Phillip. They pull me off more determinedly this time.  Please Phillip, take me with you! I cry out and there is a gasp in the crowd. I don’t go with them quietly. I can’t go with them quietly. I struggle desperately against them. Please Phillip, Please! More hands are grabbing my arms and pulling me away. They whisper compassionately as they lead me farther and farther away from him. Don’t leave me here, Phillip! You cannot leave me here! I scream. I am twisting in their arms, reaching back towards the casket. Murmuring fills the air; the hands on my body continue to whisper soft and comforting words. They don’t understand. They can’t bury him. I’m not ready. I didn’t bring any flowers. I’m not ready. They can’t bury him. I didn’t bring any flowers.

Phillip! I cry out as they drag me away from him, Phillip!

I cry out for him but no one answers. No one stops the people that are taking me away. Other people surround the casket. I’m fighting to get free as they pull me away. I’m clawing at the fingers on my arms. I’m surging against their iron grip. I cannot stop them from dragging me away. I am becoming desperate.

Phillip! I sob in what becomes a strangled scream. Phillip!

I’m making a scene. I know I’m making a scene. I sink to my knees as I cry out. People are staring. Amaridelle covers her mouth and her eyes fill with tears as she watches me make a scene. I look up to see Phillip standing by the casket surrounded by all the people I don’t know. He’s not laughing anymore. His eyes are sad and tired. He reaches his hand out to me above the crowd surrounding the casket. From my knees I reach my hand out towards him. The world is going dark. He disappears as the crowd over takes him. My hand falls to my side. Someone picks me up in their arms and carries me away. I go limp in their arms. I pray for darkness. I pray for death.

Chapter 3

They carry me up the crooked steps of our house. Our house. Never just mine. I don’t know who they are. I don’t care who they are. They help me to bed. Someone takes the veil off my face and breathes in sharply at what I can only imagine my face looks like. They stroke my face and murmur comforting sounds. Is it my mother? The covers come up to my chin and I close my heavy eyes. The darkness is calling…

My eyes jolt open as I jump up from a nightmare. I reach to shake Phillip awake to make him comfort me but turn to find that I am alone. It wasn’t a nightmare. I bring my knees up to my chest and I rock back and forth. The daylight is shining through the windows. It’s going to blind me. I fall over and curl into a ball and drag the covers over my head, only to realize I’ve trapped myself with the haunting scent of my husband. My dead husband. The one they buried. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready. I breathe in deeply. It calms me even as the tears fall. I fall into such a fitful sleep that when I wake, I don’t feel shocked or terrified but only numb. The numbness