The Valentine’s Day Massacre
In Rosewood, where February hangs thick with synthetic rose
and every storefront weeps pink crepe paper,
Harold Grimsby watches from his window—
a man the town forgot, now watching it remember love.
Forty-seven years of participation trophies line his shelves,
dust-furred witnesses to someone he used to be.
Each Valentine’s Day the claws sink deeper,
and this year, the beast inside him speaks:
“Let’s see how they like it when Cupid’s arrow misfires.”
He pulls on his tattered overcoat—still fits, barely,
the only garment that does—and steps into morning.
At Bella’s Bakery, the bell chimes clean.
“You’re here for something sweet!” she beams.
“Someone special?”
Harold laughs, the sound of a crow on a fence post.
“Just making sure you don’t poison anyone
with your love-infused cupcakes.”
Bella’s smile doesn’t falter—some people are built that way,
glowing like nothing can touch them.
“You know what’s in the air?” he whispers, leaning close.
“A little too much salt in your frosting?”
He swaps the sugar while she’s turned,
and somewhere in the transaction,
a cupcake becomes a crime scene.
The balloons rise from the flower shop,
bouquets drifting skyward like desperate prayers,
and Harold scribbles in his notebook:
“Cupid’s Revenge—one float successful.”
The couple stares upward, robbed by physics.
By nightfall, The Rosewood Bistro fills
with candle-sweat and quiet vows.
Harold slides into a booth beside strangers
sharing chocolate cake, her eyes lighting like someone struck a match.
He seasons their mousse with pepper
while they’re lost in each other.
She bites. Pauses. The face she makes—
confusion blooming into betrayal.
“What is this?”
He tastes. Nearly chokes.
“Something’s wrong with your mousse!”
And from the shadows, Harold laughs—
belly-deep, ringing off the tiles—
a sound that surprises even him.
The couple wheels around. “What’s so funny?”
“Just enjoying some delicious chocolate.”
He’s gone before they can name him.
But here is where the story curdles.
He sits alone in his dim rooms,
the walls watching with peeling paint,
and the laughter dies in his throat
like a match pinched out between wet fingers.
The thrill evaporates. What’s left?
A hollowness he mistook for purpose.
“Maybe I should’ve just given them my heart.”
The words taste like copper in his mouth.
But who’d want it? A fossil heart,
beaten dull by years of practice
in being left behind.
Outside, Rosewood settles into silence—
the aftermath of love’s annual performance.
Harold picks up his pen.
Not to scheme this time.
“What if next year… I tried love instead?”
It’s a small thought, fragile as spun glass,
but it’s his.
And sometimes that’s where redemption starts—
not in grand gestures, not in forgiveness or absolution,
but in the willingness to write yourself
a different ending.
Or at least, one where you’re not
the joke.