Neither of us says a word to the other. Not when the ambulance arrives. Not once they take Evan’s body away.
The paramedics question us, and we both say the same thing: We found him like that. Only I left out the part where I found him with a letter from the Faceless Man that has been stalking me for the past year and a half. It all goes by in a monotonous blur.
I can’t feel anything. I’ve already spent months grieving him. My mind has already pulled me into its clutches, just leaving one foot out just so I hear enough to nod every few seconds.
I didn’t even flinch when I told his parents. How could I not flinch? I should be crying with them. I should be screaming as they are. I should be getting in my car and following them to the hospital because after all they think I’m his girlfriend. In reality, the girl with the blue cardigan is closer to him than I am.
Perhaps it’s cruel or petty, but I won’t be the one to tell her. She clearly sees Evan often enough she’ll find out on her own. She still has to come by and pick up her cardigan.
Everything crashes when I make it to my car. Like a livewire, everything in me ignites. The static in my lungs burns as I scream. Pounding fists and palms on the steering wheel, over and over and over until my throat is completely raw, my hands begin to bruise and my arms burn from the pain.
I’m bitter. I’m angry. I’m upset. What is wrong with me that death doesn’t want me? Why not me?
I hit the overhead light and ignore the shitty worn seats of my crappy old car, and dig through my bag until I find the familiar orange bottle. There’s no point in taking it when Letum is clearly real. But it gives me some peace of mind, a false semblance of calm.
The lid pops open and tumbles down the side of the seat. I curse under my breath but tip a single pill onto the palm of my hand. I never look at it before I take it. For some reason, I do this time.
My grip on the bottle loosens, and it drops onto the car floor, scattering white pills all around. I bring the single pill closer. There’s a symbol on it. Not his symbol, mine.
A crescent moon with a cross hanging down the bottom: The symbol of Lilith, the she-demon.
The pill drops with the rest of them. How long have they been like this? I only searched up Lilith’s symbol the other day. Have I been taking Dr. Mallory’s medication at all? No, I must have. I have all the symptoms she warned me about. Did he swap them out?
One by one, I pick up the pills checking to see if they all have the same symbol. No. I am not crazy. Letum is real. I’m being treated for—I don’t even know anymore.
“Letum,” I scream, looking out of the window expecting him to be standing under one of the streetlights. I can’t see him, but I know he can see me. He’s watching. He always is. “What are you doing to me? What the fuck do you want from me?”
I don’t know what I expected, but nothing about my surroundings changes.
I scream again before pressing my forehead to the steering wheel to try to regain my composure. Seconds go by, or maybe minutes. I can’t be sure how long goes by as I stare at the constellation of pills on the floor of my car.
But I am sure of one thing.
I still want Letum by my side.
I don’t recall driving home, but I did. The last thing I remember was twisting the gold ring around my finger. Now, I’m turning my ignition off, my car is parked on the street in front of my apartment. I know that I drove, I just don’t think I was conscious while doing it.
My footsteps echo against the groaning wooden staircase as I climb the two stories to my apartment. I fidget with the letter in my pocket. The only evidence of Letum staking claim over Evan’s death when my phone chimes again. Whoever it was, tried to call. Evan’s mother, Carol, probably. Maybe a doctor. Possibly Evan’s flatmates, though Nate can be the messenger. Evan’s friends won’t contact me, they don’t bother with me anymore.
There won’t be anything on there of any importance, only messages of pity or people for me to grieve with. I don’t want to deal with it. I can’t face his parents when I know why their son was taken from them. I can’t face them knowing they’ll look at me and see that I’ve evaded death once again.
My hand wraps around the cold metal handle of my apartment door and I angle the key just right to hear the satisfying click of the door unlocking. The hinges groan as I swing the door open, only to stop short of closing it again.
Please, no. Not today. I’m not in the mood.
Like a woman gone mad—and I could have truly lost it from everything that has happened—I check the number on my door: 2B.
The sound of my neighbor’s door unlocking forces me inside my own apartment, and I can’t help but think that this is my punishment for ignoring the calls and not following the ambulance to the hospital.
Candles decorate every corner of the apartment, pulling me back to my dream. This time they’re of all shapes and sizes, some on a candelabra, others planted firmly on the floor.
Every inch of the kitchen bench is covered in platters of fruits and crackers, pomegranates and apples, a roasted turkey, potatoes and vegetables, bruschetta and vinaigrette, bottles of red and white wine, all on top of a deep red tablecloth. Another set of fine china is set up for me. The table is straight out of a movie, like a dining room fit to serve a queen.
In place of a TV hangs a painting that was not there when I left for work this morning. Candles and an assortment of flowers all around it like a makeshift shrine.
I stare at the painting, completely transfixed. It is the most phenomenal thing I have ever seen. As well as the most frightening. A cloaked man stands over a sitting woman with long brown hair wearing a dress spun from gold. Every inch of her is the spitting image of me. Down to the butterfly freckles and the soft scar on my lip. Where the man’s head should be is pure inky darkness. The Faceless Man. My Faceless Man. Letum. It's the type of painting that belongs in a museum, that artists all around the world would talk about for centuries to come.
I turn and take note of the rest of my apartment, following the rose petals that lead to the bedroom. I’m so numb from everything that has happened today that I’m not sure how to react, other than just to stare at it. Dumbfounded.
My foot hangs over the threshold of my room. Scattered across my desk is everything he has ever given me: the letters, a bag, the thriving lily, silk dresses and lace blouses, a crystal flower, an onyx skull, black feathers, the bag of rose petals that I haven’t thrown out.
On the bed are some of the items that I thought I had lost. The ones I swore I left it in one place, and the next, gone. The matching charm bracelet that Dahlia and I always wore. The photoframe of me on the day of graduation, holding up my stupid business degree with the biggest smile on my face. A pile of hair ties. My favorite red lace lingerie with black ribbons.
In the middle of all my things, a single brown parchment that reads:
I’m coming for you.
Chapter eight
Lilith
When I slip beneath my sheets, there’s no alcohol or medication putting me to sleep. So I toss and turn, my mind a jumble of questions.
I returned all of the things I thought I lost to their rightful places. But the things from Letum remain untouched on my desk. I’m almost proud of them.
No, proud isn’t the right word. Comfort isn’t strong enough either. Cherished? Wanted? Seeing every single thing laid out like that says something stronger and more meaningful than any of his letters. It’s like he’s telling me that he’s here for me, as he always has been.