The Rose-Throwing Man

🔴 THE RAIN SMELLED LIKE GASOLINE AS HE THREW THE ROSES INTO THE ALLEY

I watched him from the window, the downpour plastering his hair to his forehead.

He said he was going to visit his mother’s grave today, but the cemetery is in the opposite direction, isn’t it? “They were her favorites, I swear to God, Sarah, just let me grieve.” His voice cracked like cheap ice on a pond. The roses were crimson, vibrant against the grey, like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

I can feel the chill of the glass against my forehead now. Maybe I’m overreacting. Grief can make people do strange things, right? I can still smell her perfume on his coat from the funeral, lilies and something sharp, like regret. But the roses…he never buys roses.

The back door just slammed and I think he’s coming up here.

👇 Full story continued in the comments…
The floorboards groaned under his weight as he climbed the stairs. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I backed away from the window, stumbling over a stray shoe. The scent of gasoline, now mingled with his cologne, a musky, familiar blend, filled the small apartment.

He pushed the door open, his face a mask of practiced sorrow. The rain had washed away some of the redness from his eyes, but the grief remained, a heavy cloak he wore with unsettling ease.

“Sarah?” he said, his voice thick, a perfect imitation of concern. He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on the window, then on me, his eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I heard the door,” I stammered, my voice barely a whisper.

He took a step towards me, and I instinctively recoiled. The lilies and regret perfume, that’s his scent, it should remind me of sadness, but there’s something else. A metallic tang now.

“Are you alright?” he asked, reaching out a hand. His hand, the one that held the roses. The one that I saw just a few months ago when he held his mother’s, the one he’d say he loved.

“The roses…” I managed to choke out.

He followed my gaze to the back door.

He smiled, the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. “I thought they were a little… theatrical. For the grave.” He shrugged, the movement jerky. “I decided to plant them instead. In the garden. A little something in her honor.”

He’d never liked gardening.

I felt a cold dread creep into my stomach. The gasoline. The roses. The opposite direction. I saw it then, the red stain on the alley, not of water, but of something thicker, darker. And the metallic scent.

“Did you… Did you visit her grave?” I asked, the words catching in my throat.

He didn’t answer, but his smile widened. The smile of a predator.

He took another step.

And in that moment, I knew. He didn’t visit his mother’s grave. He’d never wanted to. He had used the funeral to cover up the act he needed to commit. The roses weren’t for her. They were the bait.

I ran.