Rachel M. Hollis

Deadheading

The first bouquet arrives a week after she hangs the new curtains.

Dead lilies. Sour-smelling and yellowed. Petals like wet tissues, shriveled and soft. No water. Wrapped in newspaper.

There’s no note. No sender. Only rot that makes her sneeze. Maybe it was meant for the previous tenant. She checks the lease. The name’s blacked out.

It’s her first time living alone. After years of borrowed rooms and half-lives, this one finally feels like hers. Her name on the mailbox. The rugs she chose. Groceries she doesn’t have to share. Almost perfect.

More deliveries show up, each more deformed and unwell. The thistles arrive while she’s in the shower. Sharp and ugly on the porch. She leaves them outside overnight, hoping they’ll just dissolve. Or move on to someone else. But they’re still there in the morning. Unmoved.

She calls seven local flower shops. No records.

She texts her ex: Did you send something weird to my house?

Three hours later, he replies: You always make everything about you.

She stares at the message, then deletes his number. He’d never done anything special for her.

The collection lines the kitchen table, decomposing in place. She’s not sure what to do with them. Still not sure they’re even hers.

Then comes the glass shards, jagged and dirty outside her door. She slices her thumb lifting them. The sting is sharp. Blood swells, bright and vital.

She could throw it all out, bleach the table. But this is meant for her. She knows it now.

That night, she carefully moves the remains into her bedroom and whispers to them. By morning, her cut has scabbed and her pillowcase smells of earth.

Rachel M. Hollis lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she works in tech and writes fiction instead of sleeping. She shares a home with her husband, child, and a deeply unmotivated dog.