Another day, another shift at Poppy’s Perfumes.

As usual, I’m working in the back, checking through storage while Poppy deals with customers. Unlike the proud owner of this shop, I don’t have the people skills to successfully sell anything, but I always wonder what it would be like to walk in during a cold morning to heavenly scents like dahlia petals or warm vanilla. The thought alone brings a smile to my face.

Yesterday, we got another shipment of our signature perfume: Poppy Love. Our mix of poppy flowers, cherries, hints of lilies, and a secret ingredient that makes customers go wild. As soon as they’re in stock, they sell out in a matter of days. When I open the box, the red glass bottles are lined neatly in rows with its ornate, golden accents. I lean down and take in a big sniff, expecting the blissfulness the scent brings me as it wafts towards my nostrils.

But that feeling never comes. In fact, I can’t smell the scent at all.

I lean further into the box and sniff again, but nothing comes to me. Not even the hints of lilies.

I take a perfume bottle out of the box and hold it closer to my face. The glass is icy cold against my fingertips from the months in transit, from the months in the bitter winter. Bringing it directly to my nose, I attempt to take a third sniff, but the bottle slips from my hands and falls onto the concrete floor with a smash.

“Shit!”

Glass shards scatter around me. The scented liquid forms a large puddle at my feet.

Poppy is going to kill me.

With my gloved hands, I quickly scoop up the pieces and throw them in the garbage. On top of them, I shove a paper plate further into the trash can.

Now to deal with the puddle.

There are no paper towels I can use to get rid of the evidence. The nearest roll is in the bathroom, but to get there I have to go to the front, where Poppy will most likely ask questions.

As I try and solve this predicament, my vision begins to blur in front of me. My head begins to throb, slowly increasing in intensity. It was as if my skull was decreasing in size, becoming too small for my brain to contain. I try to trudge to the nearest chair, but my legs collapse under me, leaving me floor ridden.

“Somebody…help…” I groan. Fatigue prevents me from expressing my cries in a louder volume. My eyelids become heavy, slowly closing over my eyes.

Before I can contemplate what was causing this, I got a glimpse of the ingredients list that was attached to the back of every perfume bottle. It listed the chemicals, the scents, and one ingredient that made my heart skip a beat before I fell into unconsciousness:

Chloroform