Red

I

Everyone has a color that speaks to them, you know? Red is the color that speaks to me. It's my color. Red gives me a lot of emotions. Anger, mystery, romance. My favorite. Or was my favorite. It was before I discovered my mother in the flower bed out back of her old Victorian home. She wasn't tending the flowers like you would expect, considering it was Sunday morning (she always spent time with her lilies on Sunday mornings). No, she was lying down. Surrounded by her loved flowers. She was covered in red. Her beautiful white lilies, now poisonous red poinsettias.

I was supposed to deliver something to my mother that morning. Something she had sent to my house by accident. My mother wasn't an 'ordinary' mother. Most parents want their kids to get their own place once they're old enough. She decided to leave me, her first born, our childhood home. I stayed in an apartment for some time while I was still in college. I now live in our childhood home, it's truly a gorgeous house. It still has to marks on the floor from us moving furniture so often. It still has the secret hole in the coat closet where we used to hide candy.

My mom is forgetful sometimes. She forgets she lives in her new home at times. Some things are sent to me, so I always make sure to give her the mail she had sent to the house. I think it's her excuse to see me. I walked up the steps to her home and knocked on the door. Even though I might have a key and she's my mom, she's a bit jumpy. Well, very jumpy. She always did seem paranoid. Like someone was watching her, listening. She didn't answer, so I knocked again. And again. Nothing. I rounded the house. I assumed she was in her garden, talking to the lilies. Neighbors and family said that she was weird. Crazy even for talking to plants. My siblings and I just understood that's how she is. She's Mom. My mom. The same mom I found lying in the flower bed. Dead. I told you she was in the garden.

I was about to call the police when I remembered, I am the police. This is my responsibility. "Detective Reinhart.", I heard one of my colleagues call.
"You know you can call me Lily. No need to be professional, Benjamin."
My partner glared at me before correcting me, "Ben."

Of course my mother named me after her favorite flower. And my siblings. Lillian (Lily), Magnolia (Lia), and Ren (Japanese for lotus). My mom always had some weird obsession with flowers when we were growing up. Our whole kitchen was flower themed. Vases in almost every window and our huge garden in the backyard. Growing up, my siblings and I didn't have a play set outside. We had the garden and woods that surrounded our house.

Once the rest of my crew arrived, the analysis team started taking pictures and gathering evidence. Everyone told me I shouldn't handle this case. That it'll mess with my head and it's too close to home.
"That's exactly why I need to take the case.", I told Ben while everyone else continued doing their jobs. He doesn't understand why I would want to take a case like this. Most detectives would give up any case that involves family, but my family is different. My mom isn't like other moms, she never has been. She kept things from me, from us. This might be my chance to find out what those things are . . .

Some nights as a young girl, I would hear her talking to someone in the garden. I never bothered to ask because that's how we were raised. Don't stick your nose in things that don't involve you. But I couldn't help it, I guess that's why I became a detective. When I was about fifteen, I did ask her one morning who she was talking to the night before. She didn't bother looking up from the scrambled eggs she was making. Instead she just stayed silent. I sat for a minute waiting in a response, but got nothing. So I asked again, "Mom, who were you talking to last night? In the garden."

Still nothing. "Mom!", I shouted. I'd like the think that's the only time I ever raised my voice at her, but I know that's not true. She suddenly dropped her spatula and looked at me. At first she looked angry, then her face fell into a more calmer demeanor. "Why, what are you talking 'bout, dear?", she was using her sweet, innocent, southern accent. She always used that voice to get away with things.
"I heard you last night. I looked out my window, but couldn't see around the corner of the house. Who were you talking to?"
"Are you sure it wasn't a dream, honey? You've always had vivid dreams."
"It wasn't a dream, Mom.", I guess my face was kind of red because she moved on and put her soft hands on my cheeks.
"You're burning up. Go to your room and I'll make you some tea.", she smiles so innocently. She was the opposite of innocent.

~~~

Even if she wasn't the perfect mother, I still cared for her. I desperately wanted to find the person who did this. I never got the chance because the case was closed before evidence was analyzed. Their reason to close the case was 'suicide'. All because her throat was slit. I know my mother, she wouldn't kill herself. Her life wasn't perfect, but she seemed happy. The house had been closed off, but I continued to visit and look for more. Walking down the halls, feeling like the paintings are watching me. Maybe I'm turning out like my mother, paranoid. Everyone always said I would turn out the same.

I walk into the kitchen. There were papers all over the counters. My mother was very organized. Everything was always in order. The sink was overflowing with dishes, growing up we had to wash the dishes three times before they could be put in the dishwasher. I looked around the kitchen for a little. I came up with nothing.

I moved from the kitchen into her bedroom. Complete chaos. Clothes everywhere, bed sheets messed up, dresser cluttered. Her window broke from falling into the flower beds. The blood stained carpet. I looked in her bathroom, but I didn't find anything. Just a 'suicide' note. Her closet has clothes overflowing, I moved everything then looked. A piece of the floor in the closet was loose. I lifted up the floorboard and it came off like someone had cut it to make a hideout. I used my flashlight and saw a wooden box. I picked it up. It wasn't dusty like it had been used recently.

I was about to open it when I heard something break in the room down the hall. I left. I left that house how it was, a reflection of my mother's mind. I drove off and walked back into my childhood home.

I grabbed the box and sat down at the kitchen table. I tried to open it, but it was locked. I had to pry it open. I wish I never found that box.