Page 27 of The Cannibal

Luka shrugged it off, staring off into the distance. His eyes squinted, the scarred skin across half of his face tight as he did so.

I turned my head, letting it slope to the side as I glanced. A small, tiny blip in the horizon. A glimmering bump in the distance. Our metropolis awaits, the real work hasn’t even begun.

Returning was a relief, but it brought an uncertain terrain that I had yet to grasp. It was only the beginning. The danger had not passed, and there was too much to protect. Would it be worth it? I hoped it would.

Only time will tell if the canary sings beyond the cave.

11

THE POISONER

For the first time since waking, I was able to slip away.

I went to the only place that made me feel safe.

The botanical gardens in the city reminded me much of the one back in London. A grand glass fortress guarding some of the most beautiful exotic plants from around the world. The warmth was perfect, the humidity swaddling around my body, bringing color back to my cheeks . . . or perhaps they were burning. The environment was clearing my sinuses and working to ease the rattling in my lungs.

It smelled wonderfully of wet dirt, pond water, and pollen. I could be locked in this glass cage and be happy, like a prized macaw.

I tried to dress as best I could for the outing despite my new wardrobe being made. A deep forest-green dress with small black beading around the trims. I thought it would be nice with the flora. Of course, I was right.

Towering palms and exotic fruit trees, showstopping blooms of hibiscus and orchids, birds racing along the ceiling unbound to the paths paved just for us spectators. Then there was my favorite, the carnivorous plants. While I missed my poison flowers, I hadn’t seen some of these specimens before. They were bright reds and yellows, sharp teeth or monstrous-looking appendages. They were entirely delightful.

I leaned down by the indoor pond, inspecting the red flower bulbs among pitcher plants. A small sign stuck to the lip of the stones. Sarracenia purpurea.

The purple pitcher plant.

Among them were bladderworts and trumpet pitchers. On the other side of the path, circling the pond, were flytraps, sundews, and assorted hanging pitchers. The supporting plants were mainly banana trees, Monstera species, and other tropical marvels.

“Be careful, they eat meat,” a small child said matter-of-factly beside me.

She couldn’t have been older than five. There wasn’t even any eye contact when she spoke, just staring scrutinously at the plants.

“Well, insects. I think we are safe,” I said.

The girl looked at me, her eyes naturally strict, untrusting. Yet she was talking to me, sharing this concern.

“Then why do they look so scary,” she asked, “just for bugs?”

“Maybe they just want to be left alone. Being scary is almost as good as blending in.” I smiled, though I looked past her, wondering where her caretakers may be.

“Then why are the plainest plants poisonous?” She frowned.

I clasped my hands over my lap as I knelt there, taking a long think on it.

“I don’t know,” I sighed. “To keep everyone guessing?”

The child knelt down, her hands pressed against the ground as she leaned over the edge of the pond to peep into the pitchers. To be a child is to be endlessly curious and infinitely unaware. Pure bliss.

All was well and calm. The two of us spent many minutes in silence enjoying the curiosities around us.

Though her presence was making me increasingly more nervous. There were some people inside the glass house, but most seemed to be picnicking on the green space of the property under trees and other sources of shade.

A sharp stab in my stomach.

It was a piercing pain, an emptiness.

I felt sweat build on my forehead and I wiped it with my wrist. The more I tried to convince myself I was fine, the more the sickly grip tightened on my throat. I wondered if I would expel or faint, neither was something I wanted to do. I swallowed thickly, trying to look up at the ceiling and tell myself I was okay.