An Iris in Fall

The anticipation rose fervently in the air and joined the mist coating the atmosphere; fog hung in thick veils over the trees and the houses and whispered tales of ghosts into the night. The cacophony of tipsy voices drifted from the open windows of the house and into the night, little bits and snatches of privileged lives. Mothers’ costumed young charges ran down the street outside, hyped up on sugar and pure childish glee. Flo longed to join them but was instead stuck inside her eerie prison, with only the other people there for show.

Her mother’s voice floated out of the living room and into her hideaway.

“Oh yes, Florence just recently scored the winning goal in her soccer game, and she won that literary contest – remember, I believe your son entered it – and she has an A plus in every class, Robert and I really just couldn’t be any prouder of dear Flo if we tried, I’m so glad we’re having this party for her. With a birthday on Halloween there’s really just so much you can do! And with her coming out party recently, it’s really just a matter of time before the darling finds her prince…”

Flo grimaced from the other room, curled up against a window seat in a room she knew no one would think to look. Though her parents were constantly bothered by her need for new literature, the library would not cross their minds on this night of amusement. She knew whom the party was really for, lest the guests be fooled; so instead she sat in her beautiful, custom-made ruby gown and listened to the transparent occupants of her house. They bragged of children they didn’t really care about (exhibit A; all young ones thirteen and under were in the basement with the nannies, though high schoolers attending the Catholic private schools were allowed to mingle with the adults if they so wished, which they did not), twirled around in designer clothing that was only bought if it was over two hundred dollars, drove their exotic cars not because they liked them, but because they were in style, and held their champagne glasses in such a way displayed the diamonds on steeped fingers and their long veins filled with blue blood. It was a high class party, not some “common” barbeque on the back porch, and Flo would do well not to forget it.

It was her father she heard next.

“Oh, Rupert, my boy! How are you? You look fantastic, son! I swear, Holly, the kid gets taller every day. You still playing center for the basketball team, boy? You did marvelously in that game last year, just marvelous, it was sure a sight to see, Rupert. And the Honor Society – I assume you’re still in that? Ah, yes, of course you are, what a fine match you’ll make…”

At these words her eyes screwed shut tightly, the wrinkles prominent against porcelain skin and her ruby mouth. The blue iris – exactly the colour of its name – disappeared against her lids as she brought her fist up to that mouth, biting hard on the knuckles to keep from shouting in frustration. Her extensive lashes brushed the tips of smooth, taut cheekbones, lashes the same shade as her dark, curly hair. Long and thick, it curved across her bare shoulders and tumbled down her back, accentuating the curves that existed there. The greatest wonder of all was not her outward beauty, but the dark, tumultuous thoughts that twisted inside her mind, a cavernous place that folded over itself infinitely. Her thoughts taught her the value of never-ending cycles; they also taught her the value of breaking them.

Outside the lone window, hazy clouds were moving over the full moon.

Silent footsteps reached Flo’s ears, trailing from the doorway and making fingerprints on the wall as he made his way to her. She turned her head and dropped into a sitting position, back straight and hands tucked neatly to either side of her. Assuming the flirtatious air she employed with boys these days, “I suppose my father sent you? And would you be Rupert?”

“I am indeed Rupert,” he lied deftly, “and I was simply trying to escape that awful party. You seem to be well versed in the art.”

She smiled slowly at him, eyes blinking like a cat’s. “I suppose.” And then, “Join me.”

As he did, the clouds cleared away from the moon, and the light shone fully on her face. His breath was taken but she didn’t realize. This time she tucked her legs underneath her and spread the dress becomingly, showing a little bit of the fishnets her mother had been adamant against her wearing. The man gulped hard as he stared at the velvet lines of her collarbone. Still she didn’t realize, looking at the light reflected from the sun, and cracked open the window. A breeze played with her hair, sending the smell of his aftershave into her nostrils as well as the faint stench of alcohol.

“Been dipping in my mummy’s schnapps, have you now?” Her murmur was sultry and her smirk faint. Slowly she crossed her legs in a way that made him anxious with the anticipation. “I quite love the full moon. One can only suppose about the spectacularly devilish creatures it brings to life.”

“You have no idea,” too low for human ears, and then abruptly “Let’s get out of here.”

Flo’s laugh was as low and the faint tapping of his shoe upon the floor. “I know a way. No one will see us and we won’t be asked questions. Where are we going?” She slipped from the doorway and into the deserted hall, black round-toed heels clacking loudly against the confines of the empty house. Whilst the voices were still faint the structure still had the feel of absolute vacancy, only her and the fluid motions of the man for company. Down the backstairs and past the lit candelabras they went, through the kitchen in which they were invisible, out the door quietly enough that they weren’t noticed. A shrug had made its way unto Flo’s shoulders to ward off the brisk chill and somehow he had recovered his suit jacket. When he grabbed her hand, his fingers were cold.

Then she was gone.

Later, when they examined the love bites on her neck, they were all puzzled. Holly and Robert wore appropriate colours and had her buried in the ruby dress at a service with just the right kind of mourning. The vast recovery two years later with the adoption of their new son was a symbol of hope to their highbrow neighbors. Florence Delaney Harrington was forgotten.

The hidden drops of blood from her drained, blue veins matched the hue of the fabric encasing her porcelain skin.