Flowers of Desires

Chapter 4: Unforeseen Truths

Monday, September 1

Clay was startled from his sleep by the sound of pounding on his door. His mind swayed between consciousness and the dream he had just been torn from. He remembered a field, filled with stalks of brown grain. There was a large tree in the middle of the field, blossoming with green leaves, swaying in the wind. Then, he saw her. A girl, the girl, mounted to the tree with her long flowing dress. When Clay approached her, she had reached out for him, pleading. Instead of holding a bouquet, the flowers had been her very fingers, decaying and withering, along with the girl.

More pounding sounded through his apartment. Clay blinked into the darkness of his room for a moment before rolling over. He picked up his phone to check the time. 7:08 a.m. He groaned sleepily, pushing himself out of bed, and walking slowly towards the door, his dream fading from his mind.

When he reached the door, he unlocked it before pulling it open, yawning as he did. His visitor was revealed to be none other than FBI Agent Scotlyn Cherith.

"Clay," Agent Cherith addressed. When Clay said nothing in return, she nodded her head toward him. "May I come in?"

Clay stood, staring at her for a moment. He hadn't expected to wake up to find a federal agent standing on his doorstep. He shifted on his feet, considering his options. He didn't particularly want to talk to the agent after their last interaction in which she had dismissed him rather rudely. Was she just here to question him more about the letters she hadn't believed? But on the other hand, could he refuse to let her in? She wasn't a nobody, she was FBI.

After a minute, Clay finally sighed, stepping to the side, and allowing the agent room to enter. "Yeah, sure."

Agent Cherith nodded and stepped in, immediately taking in the small apartment. Elora often complained about Clay's tiny apartment, telling him he needed more space. But it was just him, why should he need the room?

The front of the apartment was open, the dining room and living room being one big room. To the right sat an older beige couch that was covered with blankets. A small coffee table sat in front of it and a mismatched stand was against the wall, holding a TV. The left of the room was complete with a square, wooden table with two chairs sitting around it. The kitchen was separated from the dining room by half a wall.

"Small place," Agent Cherith commented, her eyes still glancing around the apartment curiously.

Clay shrugged, his expression unchanged. "Not exactly a suburban home, but it works," he replied.

Agent Cherith hummed, before strolling over to the dining table. The table was littered with Clay's things: his books, laptop, a used cup, and...

"Osiris send you this letter?" Agent Cherith asked, picking up the letter Clay had left laid out on the table. Clay eyed the letter, the poem that was written in perfect cursive, and the signed initials.

"Yes," Clay answered simply. He watched as Agent Cherith skimmed the letter, reading the poem, and analyzing the handwriting.

She looked back up at Clay when she was finished reading. "Why didn't you come in and report this one?" she asked.

There it was again. The squint of the agent's eyes at him. The suspicion, the blame. Clay crossed his arms defensively, holding them to his chest tightly. "Because the last time I brought a letter in, you accused me of writing it. Thought you might accuse me of actually being The Osiris Killer if I came in a second time," Clay responded sharply.

"I didn't-" Agent Cherith started.

"You did," Clay cut her off, not giving her time to deny it.

The agent looked back at the dining table. If Clay's tone had angered her, she certainly didn't show it, instead picking up the flower that had been sent with the poem. "Does this flower have a meaning?" she asked, holding it up.