The Futility of Garlic

The Futility of Garlic

The sun was low against the upper windows when I heard the scrape of a key against the lock. It wasn’t loud, but to my ears hypersensitive after a day of silence, it was as loud as an air raid siren. I scrambled to the front door, poised to flee as the Master was felled by the fumes of garlic. The door swung open, and I charged the opening, my feet scrabbling for purchase on the marble floor, my small frame ineffective at a football tackle. 

The Master caught me easily, his hands closing around my wrists. He swung my body back inside before I had half cleared the threshold. He was dressed for work, more formal than I had seen except on television. The starched white collar of his dress shirt rose high on his neck. Only the edges of his cuffs showed beneath the dark suit coat. I caught a glimpsed of his cufflinks, golden dragons, as his fingers ground into my wrists.

“Not very hospitable, boy.” He smiled, a feral twist of his lips with a terrible glimpse of sharp teeth. “I prefer my house not smelling of a second rate Italian restaurant.” He pushed me back as he spoke, his hot breath licking the side of my face.

I struggled, tried to kick him, jerked helplessly in his grip. My strength was but a fraction of his. I was no more effective than a kite struggling against tornado force winds. My head smacked the corner of one of the many paintings. I swore I heard a collective hiss from the family with the parasols in the opposite frame. The Master drew my hands over my head, pinning me to the wall like some helpless butterfly in a scientific collection. His weight leaned against me. His eyes, bright with unearthly sparks, burned through me. Shifting, he brought one hand to my throat, his fingers threatening the very means of my life giving air.

“You struggle. How refreshing. I thought you would be too weak for fun. The timid make poor playthings.”

“Get off me!” I wanted to shout more, but the pressure on my throat was forcing me to concentrate on drawing whatever air I could into my lungs. With each breath, the Master’s scent was filling my nostrils and overwhelming my lungs. I felt woozy and dizzy as if I had drunk too much.

“Drink in my scent; drink in my feel.” 

His voice was strangely mesmerizing. My knees felt weak, and it was only his strength that was keeping me upright. He smiled again, predatory and seductive. His thumb stroked down the side of my neck. His lips, too hot for any human, bushed my delicate skin. I shuddered and screamed as his teeth broke the surface.

****

I woke to a man sitting on my bed, a cup of steaming broth in his hand. “You, my friend, have a bad habit of passing out. I’ve arranged to have your doctor admit you for testing tomorrow.” My Master smiled and ruffled my hair. “It is probably still the effects of that nasty cold you caught, but crashing to the floor every day has to stop.” His fingers glided over my neck, and I flinched, remembering the teeth against my throat. “Is this still sore?” He leaned forward and studied my neck. “Silly man, cutting yourself while sniffing your own roses. It’s too wild to believe.” He smiled, his eyes dancing in his lean face. “I’ll never give roses to a sick man again.”

I turned my head to see a vase of red roses on the dresser. Each blossom was perfect, shiny red petals glimmering against the silver vase. I stared at the roses, noting the flowers only in passing as my eyes fell on the painting behind, a night sky with a bat against a golden moon. The bat’s wings flapped once, silently and almost invisibly. I fell back against the pillow and shut my eyes. This couldn’t be.

The End