July

Anderson and Grohm stood in front of what would have been an art piece, had it not been for the rotting stench of decomposing organs. The theme with the goddess Venus had become more than apparent. Before them, was a bodyposed as The Birth Of Ves by Botticelli. It was paired with a shell of flowers, all varied in color and species. She held flowers in her heart, they bloomed as if all at once they exploded from within her. They were fresh as if the decomposing body had fertilized and nourished the flora all by itself.

“Venus was the goddess of love and beauty.” Grohm spoke up, his hands in his coat pockets as he stood close to the body, staring at the sunken face. “She was also the goddess of victory.” Anderson stood a few feet behind him with folded arms and furrowed brows. 

“They’re bragging.” Anderson said with not much alteration in his tone. “They’re telling us we’re far from catching them, that we’ve missed everything they’ve given us.” He rubbed his eyes. “They’re bragging, that they knew Stevens. That they’re better than him.” 

Grohm smiled and turned his head, looking over his shoulder. “You really are clever.” His admiration for Anderson had begun to spark, how someone could look at something so abstract and tell you exactly what it meant, fascinated him.

“I have to be.” Anderson approached the body with gloved hands. “The flowers in her heart, what are they.” His eyes were fixated on the light blues of the Hepatica, the vibrant red and orange of the Imperial Montague. As his eyes finally pried their way from the flowers and foliage that held them firmly in their place, he was met with Grohm’s. Eyes that didn’t pay attention to the body in front of them, eyes that stared for once, into his, and not through. 

He had no embarrassment or a quickly averting gaze, instead he calmly turned his head to look at the delicate flowers. The difference in which Anderson and Grohm looked at the petals and leaves was vast. Anderson looked at it how it was, a crime scene with clues and subliminal messages caked over one another. Grohm looked at it as a masterpiece, a work of art and puzzle that was yet to be solved, something to sit and marvel at.

 “Imperial Montague.” His gloved hand delicately held one of the bundles of petals, his thumb grazing over them with utmost delicacy. “A flower rich with pigment even after it had wilted, after it had lost it’s ability to take it’s fill from the sun.” He turned his head, staring into Anderson’s eyes as they fixed themselves on the flower.

Anderson inhaled rough through his nose, it scrunched as his brows furrowed rather deep. “And what does it mean?” He had grown tired of Grohm’s tendency to prolong his words, switching simple ones for longer, more pretentious ones. 

“Power.” He said simply. His tone was warm and suffocating. He removed his hand from the stock of petals and held his hands clasped in front of him. “The blue ones are Hepatica.” His sentences were suddenly short and blunt, as if he could feel Anderson’s impatience. “Which mean, confidence.” His smile was soft and smug as he looked at Anderson.

“Confidence and Power.” Anderson repeated, recounting the flowers prior, in the bodies prior. Blue Periwinkles and Ferns, Oxeye Daisies and Jonquil, and now Imperial Montague and Hepatica. Though, as he moved his hand through the bundles, he found the familiar pink flower. The petals in full bloom as it sat gently in his hand. “They’re complimenting someone, they’re reaching out and looking for an answer…” Anderson muttered as Hanes approached. “They’re tearing out the heartache waiting, tearing the butterflies in their stomach…” He felt a pit inside him, as if something was rising in the mist. 

“That’s the third time we’ve seen that flower.” Hanes poked his head around Anderson’s shoulder and stared at the flower held in his hand. “And the third time we’ve seen something mimicking a piece of Venus.” He was just as curious as Grohm was, however the two had two completely different views. 

The three stood there, Anderson stuck in between the two as they all stared. Truly, had it not been a crime scene that begged for it’s admirant to answer, it would have been a work of art. In Grohm’s eyes it was, it was something he would have seen in Venice or Florence. His eyes danced over the body with a look of nostalgia, a look that very few would pick out from any other, but Anderson picked it apart from the corners of his eyes.

Anderson picked it apart even days after, as he sat across from Elizabeth in the sterile white room next to the window. She sat there watching him, watching his mind turn and twist trying to unravel something he thought desperately he could figure out. “She was right.” Elizabeth said with a huff, leaning into her seat. “You are painfully average.” 

Anderson turned his head with raised brows and half lidded eyes. “Oh really.” He knew he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Cali and Margot, but it was still up in the air if that were to be a good thing, or a bad thing.

“You’re super quiet, you haven’t said a single thing about yourself and I’m supposed to like you? News flash, you killed my dad.”

“Because he was going to kill you.” Anderson spoke bluntly, something Elizabeth appreciated about him. He didn’t speak as if she was a fragile being, as if she was a child that needed to be shielded from the cruelty of the world. He treated her as if she was a young adult, he treated her as she was.

“Tell me something new. I’ve heard that enough times by now.” She rolled her eyes and folded her arms. Anderson furrowed his brows, what could he tell her? What was interesting about himself that he could dig up and give to her?

“Well, I live in the woods. Nearest neighbor is five miles down the road.” It sounded more akin to an offer. “I know how to make fish lures and arrows.” He scratched his head as he tried to think of anything interesting about himself. “That’s all I got.”

Elizabeth let out a suppressed chuckle “You can make arrows and fish lures, how riveting.” She stared out the window. “What about your job? That’s probably interesting.” 

“It’s not something I should be talking about. Not with a fifteen year old girl, who’s dad I just killed.” His tone was equally sarcastic as it was serious. 

“Yeah well, this fifteen year old girl can handle a lot. Because I think I’m handling all of this very well.” In a way, it eased Anderson’s mind from Grohm to see more of Elizabeth’s personality surface.

She was right however, despite her playful and sarcastic tones and humor, she had been handling everything remarkably well. Being isolated from the world, only seeing the same nurses day in day out. She was much stronger than Anderson was mentally to be able to withstand all of this without breaking. He smiled, it was warm and gentle. “You are.” He had begun to hope, that she would go with him. 

Elizabeth found herself smiling, though trying to hide it out of her own shyness. She had begun to enjoy seeing Anderson every few days. She had begun to enjoy their talks, their silence, their existence.

As the week passed, Anderson found himself once again standing in front of the red doors. He was patient and quiet, not once was he eager to find himself in that office. Not once did he yearn to sit in the uncomfortable cushioned chairs, or to stare at the eccentric and lavish architecture of the room. He was not eager to see the man who inhabited the room either. The man that made him feel small and insignificant without doing so much as frown at him. Everything about Grohm contradicted Anderson, his clothing, his lifestyle, his apparent love for company in his home.

“Margot told me you visited Elizabeth Stevens today.” Grohm didn’t sit at his desk, instead he wandered his office with a drink in his hand. “How have your visits with her been treating you?”

Anderson leaned against the back of the seat he usually would find himself sitting in, staring at Grohm. “I think she’s easing into the idea.” He didn’t offer much more.

“The idea?” His brow raised as his attention shifted firmly onto Anderson. “The idea of what?”

“Margot convinced me to foster her. Until we can find someone who can fully provide and care for her needs.” Anderson folded his arms.

“She convinced you?” Grohm’s stare made it’s way into a soft gaze as his eyes pried against Anderson from afar. What was it about Anderson that was so fascinating to him? He couldn’t pinpoint where it began or what had sparked this interest, but he could understand that there was something deep within Anderson that interested him. There was something aching to surface, and it was refreshing to be a victim to the anticipation.

“She,” He paused, no she didn’t convince him. What she did wasn’t convincing, it was putting the overwhelming pressure to agree to whatever she needed in the moment paired so graciously with the crushing knowledge that Anderson was never the first person she went to with anything. “She, guilted, me.” He finally rephrased. 

Grohm tilted his head. “She guilted you.” He paused and took a slow sip from his glass, holding eye contact with Anderson as the oceans of thought rippled and crashed against every curve of his mind. “Into fostering a child? She must have a rather good hold on you.” He sounded much more casual, his sleeves were rolled up and the long sleek beige coat he had normally worn was draped over his office chair.

“She- We’ve been friends for a long time. She knows what to say and how to get what she wants from me.” Saying it out loud, it sounded like a friendship most would avoid. It sounded toxic and purely for Margot’s benefit. Saying it out loud, it sounded worse than it actually was, in his eyes.

“So, she manipulates you into doing what she would like, even if it goes against your own wants, needs, desires.” His brows were furrowed, as if hearing this warped his own view of Margot. His previously rather positive perception of her, had suddenly twisted hearing that once again, humans only give what they think is beneficial.

Anderson was quiet, his lips curled in and his eyebrows raised as if he had been caught red handed in a crime. Was it really like that? No, it couldn’t be. Margot and him were close, they were friends, they treated each other as such. He could say no to her, he could, he just… Didn’t want to. “I feel like I’m being targeted.” He said rather frank and quick.

“I’m your psychologist. It’s my job to target you.” He took another calm drink from his glass. 

“Your job is to diagnose me and get me out of here.” Anderson’s eyes once again wandered to look into Grohm’s. 

“And what do you suppose I’ve been doing?” Was he, arguing with Anderson? The complete lack of professionalism portrayed in the Doctor was surprising, there was a loss of tidiness and poise and yet, he was still elegant in speech and appearance. Even though his turtleneck sweater’s sleeves were rolled up and his hair a bit of a mess, he was still put together. However the question dawned on Anderson, why was he drinking on the job, let alone with patients.

That question stuck like glue to the folds of his head as he drove home. How unorthodox was he? How far was he willing to go to get results for his patients? Or was he in favor of his patients at all? Why was it that he felt so much dread and fear when he was with Grohm? 

The final question echoed, why was he afraid of Dr.Grohm? Why was it that when he found himself at a crime scene beside him, that he always braced himself as if that dreadful and grotesque hallucination would wrap it’s boney hands around his neck and squeeze until he couldn’t gasp for air any longer? Why was it, that the hallucinations became worse in the time he began seeing Grohm. 

As he sat at his desk, piecing the last three crime scenes together, he felt that itch inside him. The feeling of rough unkempt feathers against his organs, leaving thin little cuts in the delicate flesh. Swallowing the feeling down, he closed his eyes for a moment. Allowing himself to breathe, knowing that when he opened his eyes, it wouldn’t be his home he would see, instead it would be that dark room that quickly filled with dark and familiar fluid that clung to him. He knew that when he opened his eyes, he would smell burnt hair and molded flesh, he would see the mutilated faces of Dr.Stevens’s victims. He would see them, and call them his own.