The phone began to ring, its shrill tone sounding across the small house. A deafening silence hung in the air between the rings, tension thickly bubbling. Hunter was sitting across from it, terrified eyes staring down the hideously beige landline.

Dread settled in the pit of his stomach as he stood, a sweaty palm reaching out and holding onto the phone loosely. The ringing was now just some white noise in his ears, eyes squeezed shut as he willed himself to just pick up the damn thing.

The air was oppressive, his body frozen and hesitating. Fearful thoughts settled in his mind. The man.

The man will kill you.

 In one swift motion aided by a burst of raw terror, he brought the phone off its stand. That God awful ringing had stopped, now replaced with a quiet static that buzzed in his ear. A wordless moment felt like an eternity.

"Oh hello," an admittedly soothing voice began to speak from the other end. Yet it did nothing to calm Hunter's nerves. "Is this Mr. Flynn? Your bouquet order just came in and is ready for pickup. You should probably get here before the shop closes. Do you have the address?"

Hunter nodded before he realized the other person couldn't see him. "Y-yes, I do. I'll be there soon."

"Great! Now don't forget anything." And with that, the caller hung up.

Hunter sat back in his chair, giving a sigh of exasperation and tossing his head back.
 "I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this..." He repeated to himself like some sort of mantra, tears stinging at his eyes.
He rubbed at his face, stifling a single sob. Regardless of his nerves, he stood on his shaky legs, hoping the feeling of nausea would fade. Because at this point, he wasn't sure if he could hold down his food. Either way, he staggered towards the front door, vision blurred and hands still trembling.

You could... Go back to bed. Not have to do this. He thought to himself, sweat slicking the doorknob.

It had all seemed like such a good idea until now.

But they'll kill ya if you don't. Oh, they would. If you've gotten this far.
Hunter closed his eyes, duking it out with himself mentally. Eventually he decided that, y'know what, life is a great thing sometimes, and flung the door open.


A cool breeze rustled the trees and chilled Hunter's dampened arms. Crickets chirped, blissfully unaware of the internal turmoil this boy was going through. Striding down the driveway, Hunter stopped yet again as he held onto the door handle of his old, beat up Ford. Yet he didn't linger for long. He'd made up his mind back there. Pulling the door open, he ducked inside of the car, hissing with pain as the top of his head clashed with metal.
"Piece of shit..." He grumbled, rubbing his head and was almost certain he had felt blood. But his hand came back clean. With a deep breath, Hunter tightly held onto the steering wheel, taking a few attempts to put the keys in the ignition before the engine growled and sputtered to life. He let the car rumble a bit and get its own bearings before he backed out of the driveway, the radio quietly playing the top 40 hits as it always did.

"Another life's falling down onto it's knees
But I'll never smile the way, that I did like that day

Everything will be okay
It'll be okay"

The town was absolutely dead at this time of night, save for a few bars here and there and the occasional drunk staggering down the street. Hunter paid none of that any mind. He simply focused on the road ahead while the muttered beats of the music kept him grounded to reality. He began to slow when he saw a shop with its lights still on, an inviting orange glow amidst the dull greys and blacks surrounding it. He parked just outside the small building, pulling the keys out of the ignition. The air was silent once again, almost as if it was waiting for him to realize just how stupid and wrong this was.

Fear kept him driven.

With the softest of sighs, Hunter opened the car door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, looking the shop up and down. Intricate displays of flowers decorated the outside, a colorful oasis contrasting with the surrounding city. A sweet aroma wafted as he stepped closer, pushing open the door. He let the it swing shut as he walked in, a small bell ringing. His muscles tensed for a moment before he could will himself to move forward. Shelves of flora created a sort of sweet smelling labyrinth. And as Hunter turned the corner of this strangely maze-like place, he caught sight of an older lady. Her eyes were fixed on a magazine, pages turned with manicured nails, and feet donning bright red high heels propped up on the desk in front of her. Hunter considered just ducking away, and was about to before he heard her speak.

"Can I help ya, darlin'?" Her voice rasped, worn by age and tobacco.

Hunter gave a barely audible wheeze of fear before he turned to face the woman. "Ah yes um." He began, stammering. A shiver ran up his spine when he was shot with a spectacled glare from the lady. "I'm. Here to pick up an order."

"Name?" She asked, eyes trained on Hunter. It took all the energy she had to not scoff.

"Hunter Flynn."

She nodded slowly, getting out of her chair and picking up a large bundle of deep crimson flowers. "Hunter Flynn, classic rose bouquet. Funeral soon or somethin'?" She chuckled, beckoning Hunter over. "C'mere now, I ain't gonna bother to walk over there in these heels."

Hunter swallowed thickly, footsteps shuffling as he made his way to the desk. He trembled as he was handed the roses, the smell almost sickly sweet.

The lady hummed in thought. "You can run along now kid, it's already been paid for." She waved Hunter off before looking him over again. "I dunno why they've got you of all people to do this job. Hell, if I looked as good as you, I'd be makin' money some other way." She cackled at her own joke as Hunter began to back out, his cheeks red with shame.

Hunter ran to his car, the plastic of the bouquet crinkling loudly as he practically folded his tall self back into the vehicle. He slammed the door shut, taking in harsh breaths as he glanced down at the flowers. A note was buried among the roses. A quivering hand lifted the thick piece of paper out, the cursive black writing barely readable in the dim streetlight that filtered through the windows.

Sorry for your loss.

Hunter raised a brow before he turned the card over, finding more writing.

April 23, 1996
Julia Moore
1632 Sharon Rd
She will be deeply missed.

Hunter read the address over and over, the numbers burning into his mind. He settled the bouquet on the passenger seat, his hand resting on the steering wheel as he turned the engine on. There was a knot in his stomach as he drove to his dreaded destination.

The journey felt all too short as Hunter stopped somewhere in the midst of Sharon Road. He cut off the engine and, as silently as he could, stepped out of the car. His throat felt dry as the house numbers on the mailboxes went up.

1628... 1630... 1632.

He stopped, looking over the mansion-like house. Or, at least that's how it was, compared to his run-down home.
Hunter forced himself to relax. His shoulders dropped, his stiff gait forming into a lazy stroll as he made his way up the driveway.

"I'll leave the window on the right side open."

The voice of the client played inside his head over and over, the way his eyes gleamed when he told Hunter when and how he would kill burned into his memory. But what he remembered more was that cold, sickening look he had when he spoke of his own wife.

He crawled in through the open window on the right side of the house, as he was told.

"She'll be upstairs, no doubt sleeping. Maybe grab a knife from the kitchen if that's how you roll. I want a clean kill, though, you understand?"

Hunter felt his mind blur as he staggered around the unfamiliar kitchen, the knife set on the counter making the hairs on his back stand. All he heard were his own breaths and heartbeat as he grabbed onto one of the larger knives, unsheathing it from its place. He briefly weighted it in his hands before moving out of the kitchen, his shoes lightly tapping on the tile floor.

The staircase was no less intimidating once he had found it. Every step sounded a deafening creak to Hunter's ears, his conscience screaming at him to stop now. Yet fear reigned. He felt like a cornered animal, fighting against his own morality for the sake of his own life.

He heard breathing other than his own once he was at the top of the stairs. Hunter closed his eyes, gathering his senses and trying to not pass out as he began to take the final steps towards his target.

"Nobody will hear her, so don't worry if you do manage to wake her up."

Hunter stood by the bed for a long time, only occasionally looking down at the passed out figure under the blankets. He mentally gave a sharp breath, mostly out of fear of being heard. He raised his arm.

"But most importantly: Get. It. Done."

All he could hear was a high pitched ringing in his ears as he swung the knife down. Blurred vision turned black as he stabbed the woman over and over, deaf to her screams. The knife pierced through the covers, only slowing once it had jutted through a considerable amount of flesh each time it was brought down. The stench of blood filled the air.

Hunter sucked in a wavering breath, eyes wide when his lapse in consciousness released its hold on him. He stammered softly when he saw the blood seeping through the sheets. Small down feathers drifted through the air, barely lit by the moonlight.

"When it's all done, just run, kid. If you make it to the morning, you get paid."

Hunter's hand went limp, the bloodied knife clattering loudly as it hit the ground. And without a moment of hesitation, he began to bolt. He forgot to breathe as he ran down the flight of stairs and vaulted himself out the window. He made it to his car with a pace that would've made an Olympian envious. As for his driving... Rules didn't apply anymore. He had to get home as quick as possible.

The moment Hunter had done his shitty parking job on the driveway, he ran back into the house. Though something more than fear drove him this time. He blindly staggered to the bathroom, dropping to his knees and hugging the porcelain. Hours passed, with most of the time spent either drying tears, blowing his nose, or hoping that this time he wouldn't throw up while trying to gargle mouthwash. Eventually, that simple hope had been fulfilled. With a final flush of the toilet, he began to drag himself back to bed. His eyes were red, nose puffy. His head throbbed, his throat burned, and he still felt the nausea grip him. He toppled into his bed, curled up in the sheets. The rising sun dimly lit the room, the birds beginning to chirp. Hunter closed his eyes.

The phone began to ring.