Where Dead Flowers Grow

ii. Frightened Rabbit

WHEN Anna was six years old she had gotten lost in the local supermarket. It was the middle of summer and dressed in flowery shorts and jelly shoes, Anna had wandered aimlessly away from her mother’s trolley in search of treasure hidden amongst the aisles. Towering above her like a forest of skeletal trees, the shelves seemed endlessly high and barren. The further she wandered into the store, the colder she seemed to get and with no cardigan Anna almost forgot what it was like to be within the warmth of her mother’s arms. She went down through the Frozen Goods aisle, not even stopping to survey the range of ice cream flavours (strawberry being her favourite) and down the aisle selling bags of chips and chocolate. Goosebumps rose on her pale, twig-like arms and for a moment Anna thought that she might never find her mother and that she’d be sold off to passing circus to live out her days as a trapeze artist. Annabel wasn’t good at gymnastics and the thought of heights made her head spin, so she picked up her pace and found her way to the Pharmacy. 

There was something about the Pharmacy that made her feel ill. Florescent lights flickered overhead, giving the counter a sickly green tinge. She knew she didn’t belong here, it was a place where children were strictly not allowed. It’s why her the medicine cabinet at home was always locked. It was like that place her father used to go after work, where he would then come home smelling something awful with slurred words and a disjointed smile, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Maybe that’s just what adults did in the real world: go to these hidden hideouts away from the dirty, open arms of their children, away from ‘but Martin I thought you called them last week?’  and ‘daddy, daddy, look what I made’. 

It was quiet here, like the outside world - the parking lot and bustling streets - was just static played through a dusty speaker. This was one of those hideouts. 

Maybe it was the mountain of medicine behind the counter with names longer than the alphabet, or maybe it was the spotty assistant lounging behind the counter that didn’t seem to care if she became a unwilling member of Cirque du Soleil but Anna felt strangely determined to find her mother on her own. She didn’t need help. She could count up to ten in French. She was allowed to stay up until eight pm. on a school night. She grazed her knee the week before and didn’t cry once. She was invincible. 

Twelve years later Annabel Young found herself lost once again. Hopelessly, endlessly lost. Her chest was heaving and her face wet. Her legs felt like custard and at any moment she feared they might give up on her. She was pressed tightly against the side of a convenience store, in a small alcove usually used for deliveries. Anna knew this by the large, bright yellow sign warning passers-by to keep clear. It had been graffitied some time in the past, the spray faded in places. There were stains on the concrete beneath her feet too, probably made by one of the many homeless that would call this alcove a temporary shelter. 

It was bitingly cold in the city and with nothing but a sundress and apron on to warm her, she felt horribly exposed. With the Fever getting worse she let herself slide down the graffiti and gum riddled wall. She had left her jacket back at the shop, along with her letter home. For a brief moment she was glad to be in a society so keen on surveillance and security. Instead of hiding from her past, her parents, the police, she was hoping, praying, they would find the CCTV tape. 

Annabel checked her wristwatch, reading the time over and over again. 21.34. They had been chasing her for hours. She thought she’d managed to lose them at one point, by the East River. Annabel had slipped through a busy restaurant, dodging waiters and slipping out the back through the kitchen. 

Her mind was a jangle of thoughts. If she could just find herself somewhere to hole up, somewhere to see herself safe until sunrise. If she could lose herself within the evening crowds she might just stand a chance. But these weren’t hunters. These weren’t human predators. The monsters that followed her now had been playing cat and mouse for centuries, which is how she found herself shivering in an vacant doorway by Grand Central Station. Absently she watched the passers by wander, stride and march through their daily routine, barely paying her a glance. Couples and families filed into restaurants, cinemas and bowling alleys, totally unaware that these streets would soon be filled with vampires.