Blood spilled

A loud bang at the door forcefully awakens Todd from his slumber. Sat bolt upright he hazily scans the hotel room looking for signs of life or snippets of information from last night’s events. Head pounding, breath stinking of a booze-and-cigarette cocktail, the trashed room offers no hope of recollection. If a tornado had hit last night it would have left less mess. Bloodied clothes were strewn across the floor, the wardrobe was on one side and the curtains had been pulled down in a last-minute act of defiance. His first thought was the credit card bill he would have to pay, another expensive night in New York City.

Another, more abrupt, burst of banging at the door brings him back to his immediate surroundings and de-fogs his cluttered mind.

“Just a minute!” he attempts at a croak; voice threatening to escape but stopping at the back of his throat. A sharp pain begins to swell from deep within his neck.

Todd delicately raises himself out of bed, like a child walking for the first time, hesitant and unknowing. Out of the corner of his bloodshot eyes, he notices a lone fag-butt still smoking in an ashtray, one of the only ornaments in the room that appears not to have been smashed as part of last night’s commotion.

Bringing his red-stained hands to his face Todd strains to click his brain into gear. Can you give me anything, he thought with a grimace. A clue or an image that might shed light on what had taken place? Unfortunately for him, his brain read: flat-line.

BANG, BANG, BANG. “Mi senora, mi senora!”

“Fuck.” Jumping up he goes to slip on his blood-stained shirt, but before he can march to the door it bursts wide open and a wide-eyed cleaning lady marches into the tangled scene.

“Oh no no no no,” she gasps, hands held to her mouth in terror “Madre Maria no”. The old Mexican lady picks up a lone golden flower perched delicately at the foot of the bed and drops it to the floor. Without even a glance at Todd, she hastily runs from the room.

Todd’s eyes trace the free-falling flower with acute familiarity and then a searing sensation drops Todd to his knees. A show-reel of images flood his burning head. Long blonde hair, dark black lipstick, scratches up a smooth back all come flooding into his mind’s eye. There had been another in this room. The scent still lingered faintly.

Pushing back a fierce wave of nausea and visibly shaken he brought himself to his feet, wavering momentarily within the silence. This moment’s reprieve was Todd’s cue to leave, slipping out quietly from the room. He discarded the shirt and threw on a blazer to cover his naked torso - it would have to do. Walking brusquely between endless corridors he found the fire exit and escaped out the back stairwell, doing well to avoid any unnecessary attention from guests or workers.

Stumbling out onto the main, bustling street he spotted the leafy haven of Washington Square Park and bolted straight for it. Shit he was far from his apartment in Upper Manhattan. Last night must have been a wild one.

Striding past a bunch of homeless guys and early dog walkers he parked himself away from view on a lonely bench to gather his thoughts. “What the hell happened last night,” he wheezed under his breath. He felt inside his jacket pocket and pulled out two receipts dated that morning at 01:13 am. The Blue Note Jazz Club: 2 Espresso Martinis and another order for 2 Long Islands. He knew that place. It wasn’t far.

Exiting the park onto MacDougal Street he rounded the corner onto West 3rd trying his hardest to avoid eye contact with the early commuters. As he approached the club it became abundantly clear it was not where he should be. The front façade was lined with cop cars and officers looking around suspecting at passers-by.

He double-backed and jumped inside the closest café on the corner. He surveyed worryingly around the packed joint - no one returned his gaze. Catching his breath a swelling of anxiety took hold and he could start to feel the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and collecting in a pool at his stinging neck.

More sirens could be heard now and concerned coffee-hunters were starting to peer out of the café window. A murmur of intrigue began to boil, permeating the four corners of the café.

With his head and throat searing, Todd pushed past two young bankers and out the front door. He had to get himself away from Greenwich Village and re-group. Without thinking his feet took charge and marched up the tireless journey along 6th to the busiest place he knew: Times Square. If you wanted to remain obsolete in this vast city then that was the place for it.

Without a break in stride or a stop for breath he reached the edge of the swelling masses. Like an explorer on the edge of a forest Todd took a deep, gargled breath and pierced the busy crowds that were gathered within the square, ducking past selfie sticks and outstretched hands.

He would usually avoid this place like the plague, however in this moment the car horns, screaming tourists and city noise brought a calm moment of reflection. A moment that was cut short as quickly as it had arisen. As Todd’s eyes roamed the large screens he caught sight of that enigmatic yellow flower, radiating out against the visual pollution. His heart immediately froze and that same feeling of nausea took hold.

Among the advertisements a large news bulletin ran slowly across the screen:

“The Marigold Killer strikes again”

With that, the pain in his neck took a deep hold and he crumpled to his knees, doubling over, forehands fixed to the ground. He had time to share one last ear-bursting scream. A scream that would have lit up a busy Times Square. The packed crowds didn’t even stop to notice…