Anthurium

Have you ever noticed how obscene a tailflower is?

My name is Nicolas. I’m the caretaker of the cemetery. People call my work grim, but to me it’s a calling — the very purpose of my life. It gives me a reason to wake, to breathe, to act, and to endure. I’m blessed by the comforting silence and the cool breath that rises from the graves and brushes the back of my neck. It took me years of quiet wisdom to embrace the lurid reality of death. This, I finally understood, is where I belong.

I had tried other jobs before, but I failed at every one. I couldn’t bear the company of the living. The dead, by contrast, suited me perfectly. For this position, however, I forced myself to change. At first the townspeople kept their distance, wary of my reserve. Gradually, though, I learned to offer words of sincere compassion, and their coldness thawed.

I didn’t answer the sexton’s vacancy at once. I came across the advertisement one bright morning while steeling myself for another hated shift at the mall. A shaft of sunlight fell across the page, illuminating the word graveyard as if it were calling to me. I hesitated. I had no idea whether I could endure such work any longer than the others. Yet beneath the doubt, something else stirred — an odd, low excitement that began just below my stomach.

For a whole week, doubt and arousal gnawed at me. Each night I fought the uncanny desire, bringing myself to a frantic release only to lie awake afterwards, sheets soaked and clinging to my back. In the end, curiosity won. I applied.

I still don’t know what the employer saw in me, but I was given the job. Perhaps I was simply the best man for it. Or perhaps I was the only one who applied.

One night, not long after I began, I was wandering the grounds collecting litter left by thoughtless visitors. The rain had just stopped. I breathed in the scent of wet asphalt and the faint, earthy whisper of decay. The profound tranquillity of the place pressed against my thoughts until everything else fell silent. In that near-overwhelming calm, I almost missed the ruby-red pulse glowing in the darkness.

At first, I took it for a firefly. It flared for a moment, then vanished behind a black marble headstone beside an oak. Drawing closer, I saw it was a tailflower, swaying gently on its stem. I recognised the grave. I had dug it myself that morning and attended the funeral.

A young woman named Gabrielle lay beneath the earth. Two marble angels watched over her, their wings sheltering the stone cradle where her delicate features had been lovingly carved.

I remembered the mourners gathered around the coffin, their faces tight with grief and something darker — suppressed fury burning in their eyes. All of them had stared at the couple standing closest to the open grave. The man was clearly Gabrielle’s father; the resemblance was unmistakable. He was wealthy, expensively dressed, with a much younger wife beside him. She couldn’t have been the girl’s mother — she looked barely ten years older than Gabrielle.

The father appeared more confused than sorrowful. No tears marked his face, only a dazed astonishment. His wife, by contrast, made no effort to hide her indifference, though she veiled it behind black lace. The veil couldn’t conceal the heat of her gaze, however. As I stood behind the priest during the eulogy, I felt her eyes devouring me. The raw lust she directed at me turned my stomach. I had to leave the ceremony before it ended.

When I slipped away, people were tossing white roses onto the coffin. I saw no tailflowers. Someone must have placed it at the foot of the grave later.

The longer I stared at the flower, the more the world around me faded. It bloomed before my eyes with impossible speed, like a time-lapse unfolding in real time. I sank down against the oak tree, transfixed.

The blood-red veined spathe unfurled slowly, curling outward to reveal the thick, fluorescent spadix at its centre. The smooth spike waited, patient, nestled between the swelling curves. As the leaves relaxed and opened fully, the spadix began to rise and thicken. Its pure white turned to a feverish yellow, and its surface rippled into firm ridges.

The sight of it, combined with the memory of Gabrielle’s carved face, sent my imagination spiralling. My body responded with shameful urgency. I tried to fight it, but the pressure became unbearable. With trembling fingers, I unzipped my trousers and surrendered to the firm, familiar rhythm of my hand.

The spadix continued to swell. I couldn’t look away. My own arousal throbbed in time with its grotesque beauty. Though I sensed eyes upon me, I knew the cemetery was empty at that hour. Still, I kept glancing into the shadows.

At last, the madness peaked. I spent myself onto the red flower and the damp earth beneath it. In the same moment, I thought I heard a faint moan rising from one of the graves.

When the haze cleared, shame washed over me. The flower was stained with my release. I wanted to clean it, yet I dared not touch it again. Confused — both ashamed and strangely satisfied — I returned to the sexton’s house.

As the pleasure faded, the bony fingers of guilt tightened around my throat. I had never imagined doing something so profane beside a grave. Yet that night, ignorant of what I had begun, I planted the first seed of addiction in my heart. It wouldn’t be the last time I yielded to that sin.