St. Valentine's Day

Rose was beautiful.  Just like the flower.  Her long flowing auburn hair glistened in the sunlight and her large brown eyes captured her true innocence.

I first saw her at the book store on the corner of Clarence and Kipling Street, almost a year ago to the day.  She was stunning, her long, lean legs climbing high up her black skirt.  I stared intensely through my sunglasses at her.  She was perfection.

I made my move the following week, ‘accidently’ bumping into her while trying to flag down a taxi.  Apologizing the best I could, I offered to buy her a cup of coffee.  Hesitantly she agreed.

Walking down the street with her to my favorite coffee shop, I could smell the scent of her shampoo and her perfume colliding.  It was intoxicating.  If I wasn’t careful, I knew that she was the kind of woman I could fall hopelessly in love with.

Over coffee I got to know her more.  I learned that she was an only child of divorced parents and that she worked for a music label as a receptionist.  She was quirky in her musical tastes and loved old black and white movies.  As luck would have it, the local cinema was hosting an old movie marathon the following weekend. 

As soon as I mentioned it, her dark eyes lit up and it became official.  I had scored a first date with Rose.

For the next year, Rose and I dated.  We saw old movies, ate at some of the finest restaurants the city had to offer and took long walks through the park.  I had met her mother when she visited the city and had spoken with her father when he called to check in.  Both were very accommodating to their daughter’s new boyfriend.

But things didn’t seem to be going so well at the beginning of the next year.  In fact, Rose often cancelled dates, saying she was working late or that she had a headache.

As Valentine’s Day drew near, Rose became more distant, pulling away from me in public, refusing to hold my hand.  She wouldn’t even say she loved me anymore.  Instead she got really quiet whenever we were out, staring off into the distance, her eyes showing a hint of sadness.

Then came the phone call I was expecting.  She said she wanted to break up.  She was no longer happy with our relationship, that I was smothering her and felt that it was better to cut the ties now before I became even more invested in her.

I sat in silence, listening to her explanation, all the while wondering if there was another man.  I told her that it was alright but I warned her that I had already gotten her a Valentine’s gift that would be sent to her apartment on that day.  She sobbed into the phone, calling me sweet, before hanging up.

The morning of Valentine’s Day came.  I stood outside her apartment, a giant teddy bear in hand along with two dozen red roses and a large box of the most expensive chocolates.  It wasn’t original, but seeing as it was my first Valentine’s Day with a girlfriend, I decided to go with something I knew would work.

I knocked on the door, holding the bear up to my face so she couldn’t see who I was.

I heard the door open and a startled gasp. 

“Oh, my.  He really did go all out.  John.  John, come have a look at what my ex got me.”

I could feel my face turning red with rage.  There was someone else.  I peeked around the bear to see John McGavin from her work standing in the living area in a pair of boxer shorts, his bare and toned chest on display.

“Sign here,” I said gruffly, handing her the bear and pulling my cap down over my eyes. 

Rose took the form from my hand and signed with her usual flourish.  She seemed so touched by everything, smiling broadly as she took in the sights of the 24 long stemmed red roses and the box of chocolates. 

I snatched the form back from her and left the apartment. 

Standing in the hallway, I listened through the door.  I couldn’t hear all the conversation but I did hear the words “Sucker” and “Pathetic.” 

I could feel my blood boiling and I knew that I had to do something.

Boldly, I removed my cap and jacket, discarding them into the garbage shoot, before banging on her door.

She opened it, her eyes widening. 

“W-w-what are you doing here?” she asked, her lip trembling.

I forced a smile to face, hoping that she couldn’t see how infuriated I was.  “I just wanted to make sure you got my gifts,” I told her, pushing past her and strolling into the apartment.

John stood up, folding his arms across his chest.  I gave him a dismissive glance before turning back to Rose.

“Twenty-four roses for a single beautiful Rose,” I said, touching the velvet petals lightly.  “I’m glad to see that they’re all nice, decent roses.  None of those half-sprouted buds, which just look terrible.  These are all nicely in bloom.”

Rose gave me a tight smile, straining to understand what I was doing there. 

“So, this must be the new man.  Or is it the old man that you were seeing behind my back?” I asked, facing John.

Rose lowered her eyes.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said timidly.  “It just happened.”

“Nothing just happens, Rose,” I said, not taking my eyes off John.  “You either want it or you don’t.  Like now.”  I pulled a gun, complete with silencer, out of my pocket and shot John point-blank in the chest.

Blood poured from the gaping hole in his chest.  His hand clutched it, trying to prevent from bleeding out. 

I watched in satisfaction as he slumped to the floor, the crimson stream running down his body and staining the carpet. 

It took me a second to realize that Rose was screaming in terror.  I wrapped my hand around her mouth.  “Shut up,” I hissed, my lips brushing her ear.  “I have other plans for you.”

I dragged her by her hair, kicking and screaming, into the bedroom.  I felt her twist and pull, trying to get away, but she was no match for my strength.

Grabbing her robe’s cord I began binding her hands, wrapping it around the wrought iron bed head, making sure she was completely securing.

She was crying now.  My beautiful Rose had a tear stained face and was struggling to get air.  She was apologizing but I was no longer interested in anything she had to say.

“You told me that I was smothering you,” I said, bringing my face down to hers.  “You left me a week before Valentine’s Day.  That’s not good, is it Rose?”

She shook her head, pleading with me to release her.  “I’ll never leave your side,” she promised, wiggling her body on the bed so that her nightgown rose up her thigh.  “I’ll never leave.”

“You already have,” I told her, brushing a strand of her hair away from her face.  “You told me I was smothering you.  I guess that means I should.”

Before she could protest, I grabbed a pillow from her bed and placed it over her face.  Her muffled screams were music to my ears as she thrashed about on the bed, struggling to get air into her lungs. 

I watched with glee as she bucked beneath me, kicking wildly at the air, trying to break free.  I knew her lungs would be burning from lack of oxygen and that her screaming would be causing her throat to get sore.

The screams faded and soon her body was still.  I kept the pillow over her face for a little while longer, just to be sure.

When I removed it, she was dead.  Her eyes were wide, her mouth parted in a scream of terror.  But she was still beautiful.  My beautiful, sweet Rose.

I stood up, untying her wrists from the bed head.  I closed her eyes, kissed her forehead and wished her a very happy Valentine’s Day before producing a small pocket knife and cutting out her heart.

Oddly enough, after that, I never had another girlfriend tell me I was smothering them.  That’s probably because I’ve never had another girlfriend.  But I always look back at that Valentine’s Day with fond memories. 

The police were baffled by the murders.  I eventually was caught after a neighbor ratted me out.  But due to a technicality, I was walking free once more.