It was just a flower. A familiar flower with an outdated name. But as I stared at it, my skin grew clammy and I felt my chest restricting. My breath coming in and out in wheezing gasps. I ran.
When I was 7, my parents were killed on a camping trip. I was with them, and I survived. I was missing for two days until I was found, wandering, beaten and bloody and mute. I was clutching a small bouquet of wilted wildflowers. I had no memory of that time. Until now.
I woke up, not in a dark cellar as you would expect, but in a clean, familiar bedroom. Unfortunately, I was chained to the bed with a gag in my mouth. This was the home of my close friend Paul. We were in some of the same classes, though he was pursuing psychology while I was fixated on sociology. I was here because I had found out his secret. It’s not important how, so let’s just say that I was too curious, and he was too sloppy, and sloppy drunk. I had found one of his experiments, so now I couldn’t leave, and thus couldn’t turn him in.
