[Comm] Vampiric Rites: Death

Everything was… hazy. Vivian’s memories were a blur, and she only remembered things in parts.

There was a late customer. A beautiful woman with white long hair and a knowing, fang toothed smile. They were talking, and Vivian was showing her rare and exquisite blooms when suddenly… the woman had attacked her! For what reason, Vivian could not tell, as her head was spinning and her senses were dulling but she knew one thing, one thing for sure.

She was going to die.

Vivian felt limp and lifeless, and she couldn’t move at all, but she could vaguely make out the shape of the woman who had attacked her. The woman… Calla was her name, was strolling about casually, seemingly uninterested in the gruesome scene that she was the instigator of. “Don’t go just yet~” she muses, taking a red rose from a nearby bouquet. She studies it curiously under the lights of the shop, placing it towards her nose and taking in its scent. Calla places a deathly pale finger onto one of the sharp thorns and purposely pricks herself with it. A bead of blood tickles out from the puncture site. 

Calla turns to the body of Vivian on the floor and smiles. “Hungry…?” she asks, laughing slightly to herself. A rhetorical question of course, but still a joke to a captive audience nonetheless. Calla kneels down and places her finger on top of Vivian’s slightly parted mouth. A drop of blood enters it, then another. 

“I know you wouldnt understand it just yet-” Calla says her voice oddly soothing, reaching out to gently swipe some hair away from Vivian’s face. “But… you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you? I meant it, when I said that we were quite similar. I don’t know. I feel this odd connection to you, some sort of understanding. You cultivate these roses, and tend to them to bring out their full potential. And that is exactly what I am doing here. You will soon be, my beautiful rose.” She pats Vivian’s cheek softly, almost lovingly, watching her. It is almost like she is waiting for a response. But none come from Vivian’s mouth. The girl is dying, and the transformation has started to take place. 

…

It came as an absolute shock when people had learned their close friend, acquaintance, or favorite florist Vivian, had died. They had not foreseen that she would be so close to danger, close enough that it had cost her her life. Many rumors had been circulating regarding her death, especially at the state the police had found her body in. Vivian’s body had been fixed in such a way that it was as if she was sleeping peacefully. She was laid onto the floor, hands on her stomach, clutching a beautiful white rose. Upon further examination, the rose had a droplet of crimson on it. It seemed that it was blood. Surrounding her were pieces of the bouquets she had painstakingly put together for weeks. Roses of all colors littered the floor next to her. It did not seem like a crime scene at all. It was a work of art, almost a masterpiece. Yet, it was eerily, hauntingly beautiful. It was almost as if the murderer wanted to send a message.

The shop was closed under thorough investigation and the body had to be moved to the morgue. Fellow florist and flower enthusiasts alike were horrified to hear of the news. A beloved florist was taken too early from this earth. Just what did the murderer want with her? She didn't seem the type to make any important enemies. Or at least, any that would go to such lengths to cause this. It seemed a bit too odd, too random to target her. She usually minded her own business, literally speaking, tending to her blooms and roses day in and day out. They were her pride and joy. And now, they would be left to rot and overgrow in her shop which would surely send her body rolling in her grave if she ever found out. 

They had examined her body and noted two puncture sites on the right side of the neck. She had been drained, exsanguinated and left to die. It was a horrifying discovery, one that confused people to no end. What exactly did this mean? Unfortunately they could not ask her, as her sleeping eyelids were drawn closed and her mouth was shut. Dead women did not answer questions. They did not tell tales.

The wake was simple yet beautiful. Fellow florists had come to decorate her casket with beautiful bouquets of different varieties of flowers of many shapes and colors. There were big bouquets of roses of different colors as a nod to Vivian. There was a small and simple bouquet of baby’s breath, a flower that symbolizes purity, innocence and hope. A hope for a new beginning. There was one with an arrangement of forget-me-nots and chrysanthemums, tied together with a beautiful blue bow. Yet as people came to lay down their flowers and pay their last respects, one lady came forward, dressed in black with her white flowing hair tied up neatly behind her. She carried with her a bouquet of pure white. Lilies, white roses and white tulips filled her hand, tied together with an elegant white ribbon. If Vivian had seen the bouquet she would have scoffed at it teasingly. ‘Much too monochrome. It needs texture. It needs color!’ she would muse, with a cunning smile. Yet Lady Calla had come to pay her own respects, in a cruel twist of attending her own victim’s funeral.

“They dressed you well. I’ll be happy to know you will finish your transformation in something that is so fitting towards you.” Calla whispers, leaning down slightly on the casket. “I have brought you something. For your troubles. So wake up, and I will see you soon, my beautiful rose.” Calla gently places the flower arrangement on Vivian’s unmoving form and takes a step back. Looks like sleeping beauty did not want to rouse just yet.

But she had time. Calla had all the time in the world.