A thorn between two roses

A rose. A single rose left on the doorstep same as before. The slight wilting of the leaves suggested that it had been there for a few days. She bent to pick it up and some petals fell to the floor. Quite a few days. Probably placed there just after she had decided to go away for a break.

She put the rose back and took her phone from her bag. She took two photos of the scene. One close up and one of the doorway. It’s not as though the Police were going to do anything about it unless she could prove it. “You should be pleased Luv, someone fancies you,” was the comment after the last time.

She put her key in the lock and pushed open the door. She turned and picked up her bags and then purposely pressed her heel into the rose head as she stepped over the threshold.

By the time she had taken her bags to the bedroom and been to the toilet her phone was ringing. It was unusual for anyone to call the landline apart from computer generated offers or her mother. She picked up and before she could say hello a voice spoke.

“You’re back then. I hope you saw your present. I’ve missed you.”

“Who is this?” she screamed, “who the hell are you?”

The silence was unnerving. She held her breath. Finally, the voice,

“I’m your friend. I want to care for you.”

“Leave me alone, leave me alone.”

Then nothing. The line had gone dead.

She checked at the flashing red light on the phone base. Yes, the conversation had been recorded.

Two days later returning from work after a stressful day her eyes saw the roses. The heads cut off and petals strewn, the stalks snapped in the middle. She took out her mobile and took picture after picture.

As she opened the door the phone was already ringing. She snatched it up and started shouting immediately.

“Why, why are you doing this to me? Who are you?”

There was a long pause and then finally the voice spoke,

“I just wanted you to see what would happen to you if you speak to me like that again.”

The phone went dead. The flashing light showed the call had been captured. She dialed the number the police had given to her from the mobile that was in her other hand.

“It’s happened again, it’s happening again.”

Later that evening the two police called again. She showed them the photographs on her phone and asked them to listen to the recordings on her phone.

They sat with notebooks ready as she pressed play.

Just one voice, hers

The nicer of the two police officers leant forward and held out a piece of paper.

“Do you recognise this? It’s a receipt on your credit card from the florist at the end of your road.”