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The day after the incident you wake with an itch in your throat. And as you stare at the white ceilings of your familiar bedroom, you get a feeling of foreboding.
There's a yawning ache in your chest, a cavity that will never be filled. You don't want to get up. You don't want to suffer. You wish god would take you instead of him. But God is not a merciful creature, that you have come to know all too well.
The dressing process is subdued, the soft feel of clothes on your skin not enough to dull the insistant pain, the large gaping hole in your chest that will never be filled.
You choke up lily petals in the bathroom.
𓇢𓆸
Your cross sits heavily against your breast, under your shirt. You don't typically wear one, the responsibility of God's eyes is too much for you to bear.
But today you wear it in repentance.
There's a tickle in your lungs, underwhelming compared to the aching gap in your chest. He’s stolen your heart, taken it with him in death. You turn your eyes to the sky, so as not to ruin your makeup with tears.
You hate yourself for your pathetic lovesick nature. Yellow petals are choking up your throat, daffodils and chrysanthemums. You spit them into the grass before you enter the detective agency.
You don't need to burden them with your plight. At least not yet.
𓇢𓆸
You look up the meanings of the flowers when you're in the office, your fingers trembling as you read the words.
Lilys, purity. Daffodils, rejection. Chrysanthemums, slighted love. You choke down the tickle in your throat, closing the tabs with shaky fingers.
“The meaning of flowers?” It's Ranpo, pearing curiously over your shoulder. You force a smile, perfect in your broken heart.
“My friend wants a bouquet.” You tell him, shooing him away too his work.
And as he meanders off, you congratulate yourself. At least until the petals choke up your throat and you slipe away discreetly to the bathroom.
You throw up petals into the toilet.
𓇢𓆸
A week after the incident you choke up an entire flower. It hurts, the thorny stems of a small rose, its petals a dark unnatural black. You crumple the delicate petals in your hand, muffling your tears into a towel before quickly reapplying your makeup. Covering your dark circles. You haven't been sleeping.
Death's heavy hand is hovering over your head, weighing you down with the weight of your sin. The sin of eternal love. The sin of pure devotion.
He stands behind you, death. With his hand on your shoulder, taunting you. He laughs at your misery, at your pain. He plays his melodies of death, his requiem, his Lacrimosa, truly a lady of sorrow. You shed enough tears and pain to be allowed the title, although you have yet to birth the son of god. You don't think you will. You know your death is around the corner.
It will come when the bells toll, when the stems growing in your lungs eat at your insides. The pain drives you mad.
You choke up as many flowers as you can before you leave for work.
𓇢𓆸
“Name?” Atsushi says, his hands clutching the papers in his hands. He's a kind boy, cute and sweet. You spare him a small smile, biting back the petals in your throat. The boy shuffles his feet nervously.
“Are you doing ok?” Atsushi asks, the question almost too much for your delicate sensibilities. You almost cry, trying your best to give him a smile.
“Im doing well.” You reply, the weight of the lie hanging heavy on your chest, the cold metal of the cross judging you.
The boy leaves, called away but he still eyes you, worried.
You wish you fell for Atsushi instead, for his kindness, for his selflessness.
𓇢𓆸
They're getting suspicious. This you know. But you smile and keep your mouth shut and muffle your choking as much as you can. You don't need to burden them any more than you already have. You must die without a fuss.
You had long ago learned how to fool Ranpo, how to get around his almost all knowing intellect. For the key was withholding the crucial fact. Because he could not come to a conclusion without it, and you were sick in your misery. You could never burden them. Never bear to see their eyes of disappointment, their eyes of confusion.
‘How could you love him?’ you were sure they would say.
You couldn't explain, you didn't know yourself.
And then you couldn't stop the flowers that ripped out of your throat, spilling onto the office floor. The white petals of the lilies were stained red with blood.
You didn't see much as you fainted.
𓇢𓆸
You wake in the infirmary, a worried circle of your coworkers surrounding you. The worry on their faces almost makes you sob. You bite back the lilies as Yosano waves them away.
They file out single files, varying looks of confusion on their faces. The door slams.
“How long do you have left?” It's Yosano, arms crossed, eyes disapproving.
“About two weeks.” your voice is rough, choked. A petal falls from your lips.
“Is there no solution?” Yosano asks you, her voice choked with emotion. The sigh that escapes your lips is more than a thousand words.
“The dead cannot return the love of the living.”
Yosano wipes her tears before you see them.
“Rest.” She says, closing the door behind her.
𓇢𓆸
The meeting is solem, confused eyes meeting red rimmed eyes. All the eyes turn to Yosano as she enters the room, her own eyes red. Fukuzawa is the first one who dares the speak, from his place at the head of the table.
“What is going on.”
Yosano sinks into a chair, hand scrubbing at her eyes. The words she speaks are damning.
“Hanahaki.”
The room sinks into a tense silence, a broken silence, a confused silence. The emotions are a whirl in the room, the atmosphere choking, cloying, unpleasant. Someone muffles a sob into their clothes, Kenji or Atsushi or Naomi, it doesn't matter. Yosano composes herself, dropping plain information on the people in the room.
“She's choking on Lilies and Daffodils, and she won't last much longer.” She says, the words plain and almost cruel. Kenji curls up into himself, his head resting on his knees. Kunikida, sitting beside him, pats his back.
“Who is it?” It's Atsushi, his voice choked up, his eyes shining with unshed tears. The room is suddenly silent, waiting with bated breaths for the escape, the hope that this could end. Yosano hates to break their fragile hope, but she repeated the words you had said to her.
“The dead cannot return the love of the living.”
𓇢𓆸
The green bottle sitting in your hand is your escape. Arsenic is a simple plan, easy to execute, to end your suffering. The lilies are choking your throat. You want to escape.
There are letters on your bed, piled around you, addressed to the ones you love. You don't want to leave them, but you don't want to suffer,
The bottle is your escape.
With a pop of finality, with a last look at the world around you, you drink the poison. It's tasteless, colorless, odorless.
It lulls you into your final sleep. You can see him, Fyodor, standing on the other side. You slip into death with open arms, broken hearted but peaceful.
𓇢𓆸
Something is wrong. Atsushi feels it, the weight on his chest, the knowledge that you, a trusted coworker and beloved friend are going to die. And theres nothing to be done about it. The meeting is silent, as the words sink in, and then, it is exposed.
People are talking, arguing, yelling over each other, words and questions and angry accusations. Atsushi covers his ear, tears welling in his eyes.
And then, that feeling, that horrible dawning feeling that something is wrong. Almost silent, he stands, slipping out of the infirmary door, Ranpo and Yosano on his heels. He can see the dread painted on their faces, the same dread that wells in his stomach, which eats him out from the inside. The hallway is short, the infirmary door at the very end, but it feels like forever, like the hallway will never end and you’ll die out of reach.
But finally, they reach the door.
It's quiet in the infirmary, the bed that you lay in still, letters scattered neatly around your body. You're too still. Atsushi flies forward, the other on his heels.
Your face is serene in death, the lilies and chrysanthemums scattered around you, a makeshift memorial. There's a bottle beside your hand, empty. The label is a death sentence.
“Arsenic.” its Ranpo, choked up and angry, his fists by his sides. Atsushi chokes on a sob.
The infirmary door opens with a crack, the others joining them. The entire room hangs in a state of disbelief, of despair. And then the accusations fly.
It's loud. Atsushi covers his ears, eyes dripping small tears onto the floor of the infirmary. He feels weak when he cries, but he’s sure the orphanage director will spare him this much.
𓇢𓆸
You left them letters. Personal letters addressed to each of them, and even some for the port mafia members. They read them in the meeting room, solemn and silent.
But there's one letter that sticks out, an unaddressed, blank envelope. They know they shouldn't open it. But they do, and it confirmed their fears and biases.
For there are only a few words on the paper, a few damning words.
“From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Фёдор—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Фёдор—
Nameless here for evermore.”
𓇢𓆸
They bury you with Lilies, Carnations, and tears. The finality of death painted on your face.