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the countryside is my only alleviation at the moment; less and less people ventured out into the unmarked forests and the wild country trails in fear of losing their plaintive lives, which amused me to the highest degree.
i was due home any minute now, but an endless field of yellow stretching into the horizon had caught my attention and i found my legs carrying me there involuntarily. the yellow sunflowers glowed in the early afternoon sun and immediately i drew closer like a bumblebee. my initial intentions are, for once, harmless: flowers looked their most divine when left alone to compliment the other delicate features of mother nature. after spending a few moments smiling at each yellow jewel, i'm bewitched by a soothing soprano voice. i look to find the owner and find him sitting on the last two steps of a stone staircase leading up to the nearby village.
he's unaware of his new audience as he picks and prunes the sunflower in his hands, singing while his fingers pull each petal out of place.
"that poor flower."
his singing stops immediately and he shouts a little in surprise, drawing the flower close to his chest like it would protect him. i may have looked threatening dressed in an all-black ensemble but he takes no notice (or if he did, he didn't display his alarm) and laughs.
"what can i say, i'm a murderer."
considering the situation, it was an ill-timed joke on his part. yet i found myself genuinely laughing, desensitised to such dark humour.
"are you new around here?" he places the flower on the step and i notice an open penknife glinting in the sun beside him.
"yes, i've never walked this route before and i saw the flowers. how come there's so many?"
the stranger shifts on the steps a little, silently inviting me to sit. i do, folding myself into the tight space and twirl a sunflower between my calloused fingertips.
"this village's agriculture is sunflower oil, among other things. that's why there's so many fields of the stuff. i sneak down here every so often to pick out a few for my mother. since it's the edge of the field no one really notices." i take a liking to this mischievous stranger, nodding lightly as i gaze into the setting sun. he turns away for a moment, reaching down for the bucket of flowers he'd previously collected and i utilise this moment of distraction to slip something into my pocket.
with some effort he turns back to me, water sloshing onto his jeans. he looks between me and his haul proudly, waiting for a word of commendation. not the type to congratulate, i just nod more with a small smile. this seems sufficient for him as he's beaming back at me.
when he turns again to replace the bucket, i slice the knife along the supple skin of his neck. my smile widens when the jugular bursts and warm crimson liquid courses down my hands and stains the front of his white t-shirt. he can hardly look at me, coughing and spluttering before his eyes roll to the back of his head and he slumps forward, collapsing on the dust and in a pool of his own blood.
i don't bother to wipe the knife, sending it clattering down the steps into the thick of the flowers as red stains yellow.
