I shut the curtain quickly. My heart was in my throat, threatening to choke me. Fear loitered in the back alleys of my brain and spread all over, freezing me in place.
"This can't be happening," I muttered in an empty house that now began to feel eerie.
I opened the curtain just enough to peer with one eye, and there he was. Standing across the street, looking dead-straight at me. His eyes ablaze and smile so sinister, it sent a shiver down my spine. I slammed the drapes shut again.
I needed to sit. I needed to breathe. I needed a glass of water. Maybe something stronger. On the table in front of me lay the note. I stared hard at the piece of paper, hoping it would self-combust. It didn't. It mocked me. I couldn't bring myself to look at it again. That man with red eyes must’ve sent it.
I guzzled down almost an entire bottle of cold water, splashed another all over my face, and sank into my sofa again. I cursed loudly, and let the tears flow. I've made a bonfire of my life and poured lighter fluid on it. Now I stand beside it, holding a lit match with the flame almost up my finger.
Six months ago, I moved cities. You could say I fled. Fled from a horrid past. A past that had turned from a stuporous fulfillment of routine to a straight-up train wreck. Roger's sudden disappearance. The police inquisitions. The missing body. The court hearings. The media trials. The social media shaming. Everything consumed me whole and spat out this scandalised, shaken-up version of myself that I can't recognize in the mirror anymore.
I still sometimes hear the door slam. Probably because it happened the day before he went missing. Or maybe that was the moment. He left without his wallet. I remember chasing after him to give it back, but I stopped at the threshold.
He was walking away fast - head down, arms swinging stiffly, fists clenched like he was about to punch the air.
"Roger!" I’d called.
He didn’t turn.
Or maybe he did. I can’t remember now. That whole evening is a blur. I must’ve stood there for minutes, barefoot in my garden, holding his wallet like an idiot. At some point, I was on my knees in the dirt, working the soil beneath my sunflower. It calmed me. That sunflower always calmed me. The ground was softer than I expected. I told myself I was just reworking the bed. I don't remember planting anything new.
I drank alone that evening. And the morning after. And ever since.
The harassment started with whispers in my office cafeteria and soon reached the boss's cabin, where he summoned me and fired me without cause. "But sir, I did not..." He didn’t even let me finish. He'd apparently been sent tweets claiming my involvement in the murder and/or disappearance of my own fiancé. #ShameOnHer.
That’s how easy it is. There's no fucking trace of him. I spent the first couple of days looking for him myself. I hit every pub he enjoyed his evening beer at, went to every showroom he test-drove cars at, and the obscure cafés where he - where we - went in search of the perfect almond croissant. Nothing. He'd vanished into thin air.
Two days later, I went to the police to report him missing — and yet, after months of no-show, it’s #ShameOnHer. My tears had barely dried when the police tried to turn the tables on me. When did you last see him? How did he seem? Did you have a fight? Was there trouble in paradise? You’ve been engaged for 10 months — why no wedding date yet?
The personal questions kept coming. They tried to insinuate he was unhappy with me and had second thoughts. I glared at them, eyes red and moist. I refuted those notions, of course - because I had no plans of ending our relationship. Not after coming this far. His mother was always sceptical of us, and this gave her an opportunity to launch a full offensive. She turned the force in my direction.
My house was suddenly a crime scene. Cordoned off. Searched. My personal life ransacked like it was nothing. Sniffer dogs ruined my carefully curated garden. All in the name of investigation. My longing for him was replaced by anger. I sent him hundreds of unreturned texts - none delivered. They peered into my chats too, and one cold evening, just took me in as the lead suspect.
The lack of evidence that wasn't circumstantial was laughable. My lawyer shone a light on their disgusting incompetence in court and poked holes the prosecution couldn’t recover from. But before that could even transpire and I could walk free, the media had already poisoned the public's mind. They ran primetime debates about the dangers of dating these days, using me as the poster girl. They slaughtered irony along with journalistic ethics, while claiming men need to be more careful out there.
I lost my job. My gym revoked my membership. My yoga buddies chucked me out of the WhatsApp group - and the classes. Even a fucking supermarket shut its doors on my face. Angry protestors ran campaigns to Find Roger while also harassing me and making me fear for my life.
One day, I looked into my wrecked garden with a longing I hadn’t felt since Roger was gone. The panic and worry in my heart and soul had been replaced by the desire to start afresh. I looked at my wilted roses, crumpled hibiscuses lying all over, and the solo sunflower still standing tall in recently dug-up and reworked soil. It stared at me, almost egging me to just pack up and leave. The police stopped hounding me - but I know they’re still tracking me. I had to get out.
One day, I stuffed three bags full of clothes and essentials into the trunk of my car and just drove. I crossed state borders, reached another big city, found a hotel to rest and plan. In a week’s time, I found an apartment for rent. I was now two days out from a job interview. Was I going to get it? Unlikely. But was I going to try? I had to.
I can't stay stuck in this chasm between the past and future. I had to step forward. I had to move on. I looked at my fingers. They were cold and numb from the fear that hit me. I held my thumb and first finger up - I was that close to starting over.
Maybe I’m imagining things. The last few months have taken a toll. I picked up the note and dragged myself to the window again. I slit open the curtain.
He was still there - with the same piercing stare and a deathly smile. I didn't turn away this time and he took it as a cue to bring his hands forward from behind his back.
One held a sunflower. My sunflower. The other — a bloody sickle.
I could hear my soul leave my body.
I looked at the note again:
You buried me alive.
I was done for.
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