A CURIOUS KIND OF SCENT

Infinite blackness crashes over me in waves. Each wave comes so quickly. I struggle to catch my breath. I’m dying. My eyes can see nothing through the thrashing obsidian sea. But, I can hear her voice calling out to me. She sounds so weak and frightened. I try to move forward but my feet seem anchored. I scream and feel the putrid blackness slither down my throat. I can still hear her voice, though my senses begin to fail. She always calls the same thing.

            “Clifford! Come to me!”

            The sound of the mail slot opening startled Clifford Reid from the thoroughly worn sofa. His leg hit the coffee table on his descent. He winced with pain, but only for a moment. Then he lay motionless on the floor. The pain meant nothing to him. Nothing truly mattered anymore.

            After wallowing in self-pity for some time, he stood and wiped his brow. He glanced over to the newly accumulated mail. The pile was growing to massive proportions. He sighed, walked to the pile, and stooped.

Bills, past due. Letters from the University. Garbage all.

            He angrily wondered why the world couldn’t leave him be. Leave him alone with his misery and guilt. Few would understand.

            Stomping off to the kitchen, Clifford was determined to brew a pot of coffee. Upon entering the kitchen he did not notice the fetid odor filling the tiled room. Dishes were piled shoulder high in the sink. Maggots writhed along greasy plates, and flies buzzed overhead. He paid no mind as he reached for the badly stained pot. While holding it under the faucet, a maggot fell from its perch and into the swirling water. It was soon joined by the caked on remnants of previous rounds of coffee. He continued filling without batting an eye.

            As he set the pot in the filth layered maker, a thought crossed his mind. The plants. Leaving the kitchen, he approached the warped brown door to the basement. Humidity was thick in the air. He could almost taste it. The scent, which so tenderly licked at the nostrils, was of an earthy variety. He smiled and placed his hand on the knob. It rattled as he twisted it, dislodging two screws that tumbled to the hardwood. Their melodious tinkle went unnoticed by Clifford, whose mind was dead set on the children growing in the basement.

            While Clifford descended, the scent of lush greenery filled the air. The basement was much larger than the house’s floor plan would indicate. The soft hum of ultra-violet lights and the slow drip of water were the only sounds that could be heard. He stepped close to the hydroponic set-up and was dismayed. The long and arduous work proved to be all for naught. The withered, brown leaves of Atropa belladonna brought a look of devastation to his face.

            Moving further along, he saw the malignancy of death had not limited itself to the deadly nightshade. The Rafflesia arnoldii that he had been carefully monitoring, lay limp. Its powerful, colorful petals had wilted. They now resembled brown gelatin. Clifford smashed his fist down on its pulpy remains. The foul smelling jelly spurted on the surrounding plants and lamps. It dripped in putrid dollops down his fingers.

            Dejected, he turned back to the stairs and ascended, shutting all the lights off upon reaching the top. Fuck it, they can all die.

            Returning to the kitchen, he took the coffee pot from the maker. He looked about the stacks of greasy dishes searching for a mug. The “World’s Best Teacher” mug caught his eye. He grabbed it and filled its blackened interior. Even as he took the first mouthful he remained blissfully ignorant of the wriggling maggot that slithered down his esophagus. He smiled as a surge of energy coursed through his body.

            The caffeine made his perception sharper if only to realize the sheltered existence he’d been living. He looked to the gray drapes covering all the windows within sight. They had not always been gray. When Celia was there, the drapes were always of a bright color. Purple in the living room. Green in the foyer. Yellow in the kitchen. A cornucopia of colors. Those had been happy days. Days which allowed Clifford to smile. Those days were but frayed memories. When Celia died, Clifford had torn down all the colors in their home. Now, the once black drapes had faded to their present gray.

            A knock at the front door roused Clifford from his reminisces. He glanced around the room, thinking it may have come from the basement or, worse, the ceiling. The knock came again and he knew that it did not originate in the house. The clink of the mail slot opening piqued his interest.

            “Clifford?” called the male voice at the slot.

            Cautiously, Clifford crept to the door. He slinked along the wall almost as though he were preparing for the worst. In short order, it became apparent that it was the worst.

            “Clifford, will you come here?” the now too familiar tone called. “We’ve been worried about you in the department.”

            Yes, I know that voice. The man that called to him was that of Dr. Nigel Kelly, head of the Botany Department of the University. A well respected and cultured professional that Clifford had never liked. Ha, he thought, worried now? After all these years?

            “Clifford!” called Nigel’s grating voice again. “I must speak with you.”

            Feeling especially malicious, Clifford knelt down to the mail slot, pushing aside the mountains of letters.

            “Yes, Nigel. What is it?”

            Though he could only see Dr. Kelly’s knees he noticed a certain swoon in his step. The doctor backed away from the door.

            “My god Clifford, I’m glad you answered!” said Nigel. “We were beginning to worry about your well being! Haven’t you received the letters? Your preliminary work has given us a grant.”

            Silence.

            “Isn’t that exciting?” he continued. “Your marvelous work will lead our University to national recognition! Aren’t you enthusiastic in the slightest?”

            Clifford forced a smile on his face that was quick to diminish. These people want me to be thrilled about them piggybacking off my work? He leaned close to the slot and exhaled. He hoped Nigel could smell his foul coffee breath.

            “That’s exciting, Nigel, but what does that have to do with me?”

            Though he could not see his face, Clifford knew the doctor was glancing about with wide eyes and quivering in his shoes. He wouldn’t be here without me. That’s why he thinks a service call is necessary. Just like the gasman.

            “What does it have to do with you? Well everything, my good man! Without you, we’d still be in our stagnant period. The students we get, while bright, are sorely lacking without your guidance.”

            Clifford laughed. Laughed directly into the mail slot.

            “So that’s why you’re here. You want me back to guide these failures to a competent life?”

            Nigel floundered.

            “Not at all, my good man. We were simply worried about you and thought you may be interested to know what your research has created.”

            Clifford could smell his sweat and awkward motions. An unfortunate gift the plants had bestowed upon him.

            “That’s marvelous, Nigel. Now there are two things I want you to do for me…”

            Dr. Kelly knelt and placed his ear close to the mail slot. A certain greediness crossed his face.

            “Yes? And that is?”

            Clifford moved close, to be sure the doctor would hear it.

            “Fuck off and go away!”

            With that, Clifford slammed the mail slot shut and returned to his inner sanctum. Though the Nigel called to him, he did not hear a word of it. His mind had turned back to his own dark thoughts. He had important work to do.

            It washes over me. In this brightness, I try to weave between the purples and the greens. The sky is awash in a sheen of yellow. Not the yellow of a bright summer day, more the yellow of the sickened stain of a urinal. It appears diseased. Something about its shade makes me think of pus. Of gangrene. Of bruises. I push forward to the glass house. It grows nearer but it feels like I’ll never reach it. She swims overhead. Her sea of blackness, her kingdom. My sea of silence, my future. I reach above my head to touch her. She skitters away from my grasp. Will things ever be the same?

            Standing before the greenhouse, Clifford maintained hope. Here, his personal kingdom must bear fruit. He hesitated before twisting the knob. If this has failed, what have I to live for? He pushed the door open and the smell of death overtook him. He closed his aching eyes as he entered. Not now, not right now. The smell of decaying plant matter became much stronger in the tightly packed greenhouse. Clifford refused to open his eyes. He knew his Conium maculatum and Euphorbia pulcherrima had perished. There was no getting around it. The sickly sweet mix of deadly hemlock interweaved with the smell of Christmas. Oh how he’d once loved Christmas! Christmas with Celia. Christmas long faded…

            He strode to the back of the greenhouse where his prize possession lay. There he opened his eyes. Celia grew strong. She had grown to almost eight feet. Her leathery membranous leaves stretched forth, as if to say, lover, come close to me…

            Clifford felt the erection in his pants, gazing upon the beauty that was Celia. Has it been that long? The Titan arum had grown to unprecedented proportions. Its long armed leaves stretched out over the lesser plants. It’s learning to take. He stepped close to her and lightly touched her leaves. Celia quivered beneath his touch. He smiled. Good. He stepped back and inhaled deeply. The smell of her was so precious. It brought back nothing but fond memories. Memories of strolling through the streets. Memories of intimacy. Memories of a love that would never die.

            Clifford began to weep. He brought his hands close to his face. It did nothing to halt his thoughts. The smell of carrion should have been predominant but instead Clifford could smell Celia again. That perfume had always driven him wild. When she wore it, he could barely contain his lust. He would run his hands over her body whenever she wore that perfume. She would playfully push his hands away and he, in turn, would always bring them back.

            Clifford could hold back his emotions no longer. His knees became weak. His eyes poured tears. He could not stand being in her presence. It only brought anger and sorrow to his already weakened mind. Turning away, he headed towards the door, laying his eyes on the decaying poinsettias and hemlock. Streams of mucus and tears coalesced midway down his face. When he began to walk he heard a sound from behind. To his ears, it sounded like peas being separated from a pod. He turned, hesitantly, back to Celia. The top of the pod had begun to peel away. The brown hair, Clifford recognized. He turned back to the door and ran out of the greenhouse.

            In time, she’ll be ready. In time…