As expected, a single lily greets me when I open the door. Evan told me to stop buying them because he’s sick of seeing them. I don’t even like flowers, let alone lilies. He should know I’m not the one buying them.
The resemblance to my name isn’t lost on me, it was an amusing gift at first. Now it feels like there’s something that I’m not getting.
Next to the lily is another rolled-up brown parchment. This time, before I unroll the note, I bring it closer and inhale deeply. It smells like a forest in the morning when dew still dots the leaves and the mist still swirls around your legs. But it also smells like the ocean breeze at night, freeing, yet cloying, from the unknown that lies within the darkness.
I unroll the paper and fresh tears gather but don’t fall as I read the note:
You will bloom, my sad flower. You already have the earth; I will bring you the sun.
I tuck the note close to my chest and lean my head against the aluminum locker and fist the necklace he gave me. The Faceless Man is the only one who sees me. Like I don’t need to utter a word and he’ll know everything there is to know about me. Sometimes I think that he might know me better than I know myself, but then I remember, I may just be as crazy as they say.
My shift ends in a whirlwind of trouble: spills, broken glasses, angry customers, threats of a lawsuit, and to top it off, someone stole all of the money out of the tip jar. Meaning that tonight’s gourmet meal will come in the form of antipsychotics made by Johnson and Johnson. But already my stomach aches for something substantial to eat, not just a kids’ sized packet of chips that one of my coworkers gave me and the chicken sandwich that I’m guessing the Faceless Man left in my locker, but I couldn’t stomach.
I almost have to stop and rest as I walk up the stairs to my apartment. Exhaustion weighs on my shoulders and my lower back hurts from being on my feet all day. A bath would be great, but we can’t always get what we want. Not when electricity is so expensive, and my patience would be far too thin to wait for the tub to fill.
When I finally make it to my floor, I have to angle the key just right to unlock it. I step into my place, blissfully ignorant with nothing but food and sleep on my mind. As soon as the smell of lasagna drifts through the air and makes my mouth water, I mutter, “God, I really am going insane.”
Nothing screams crazy like smelling your favorite food when you’re delirious with hunger.
I flick the light on and blink. I blink again, thinking the sight in front of me will change and my delirious mind will snap out of it. But it stays exactly the same.
On my kitchen island is a single candle, its flame flickering in time with my pounding heart. Beneath it, a perfectly white plate and silverware that probably costs more than every item I own in the kitchen. Then the sight that truly has me breathless: perfectly cooked lasagna, a plate of sliced ciabatta with garlic butter and melted cheese, and a bottle of wine.
My three favorite things.
For the first time in a while, a real smile tugs at my lips. Without thinking I reach into my bag to fish out my phone to dial the number at the very top: Evan.
I start hobbling toward the bedroom while stripping out of my clothes that smell like stale milk and a crappy day.
He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Thank you,” I say breathlessly. “I love it.”
I don’t know how he managed to pull this off with finances being so tight, but this is the sweetest thing he’s done for me since the accident. He must have felt bad for manhandling me the day before and being a dick yesterday morning.
“Uh, okay?”
I tie the cheap silk robe—that’s oddly softer than usual—tightly around my waist and pull on some underwear. For one blissful moment, I feel like the old Lili who walked around the house with a robe and a glass of wine while music played in the background. But the thought dies when I hear feminine giggles on the other side of the phone, followed by Evan harshly whispering, “Shut up.”
The worst part is that it doesn’t sound like his flatmate’s laugh.
Logic tears at the joy I felt and steals the smile that was on my lips only seconds ago. Reality is the worst pain there is. Would he not join me if he went through the effort of making all of this? Wouldn’t he wait at the apartment to see my reaction? How did he even get inside without a key? Where did he get the plates and the silverware? Since when does he even cook?
The creak of the wood beneath my feet is louder than ever before, but I’m deaf to the words coming out of Evan’s mouth about how busy he will be and how he won’t be able to see me. Then I stop in front of the counter and properly take in the setup, including the brown parchment sitting on the bench, just above the plate. With hesitant hands, I unroll the letter:
A feast worthy of my creature of the night. Enjoy your meal, my love.
I press the big red button on my phone, hanging up the call even though words keep coming out of Evan’s mouth.
The Faceless Man did all of this. How did he know that it’s my favorite food when I haven’t had it since before the accident?
I could call the police and tell them that someone did all of this, and that this whole time I was right. But they wouldn’t believe me anyway. Part of me wants to knock on my neighbor’s door and give them all of the food just so the Faceless Man doesn’t think that he has me wrapped around his finger.
That would be a waste of food; he does. He well and truly has me hooked. It terrifies me and thrills me all at the same time.
It’s just one meal, I try to rationalize with myself. It’s not like you have anything else to eat. Plus there’s enough there to freeze for the next few days. But what if he starts doing this every night?
My stomach decides for me, and I’m pulled to the seat and pile my plate. Actually, I wouldn’t mind coming home to this every night: a candlelit dinner with food that smells like it was made by the gods.
I hesitate when I reach for the wine bottle. I have barely eaten today, and I’m pretty sure my medication came with a big warning not to consume alcohol. I’ve followed that rule since the day I started it, but the medication clearly isn’t working…
What’s the worst that could happen if I drink? I start hallucinating, I go crazy? It can’t possibly be worse than the cards I’ve already been dealt.
When a faceless man brings you the best meal you’ve ever eaten and a bottle of wine that has the logo embossed into the glass, wouldn’t it be rude not to try everything that he has to offer?
The red liquid sloshes into the brand new wine glass, and the aroma of it scratches the memories of the old Lili. I was never a connoisseur of wine but even I know that this is good wine. I down the glass before I think better of it and pour another one, taking big sips between every mouthful of food.
With each passing second, my body feels lighter and lighter and my numb thoughts defrost. But my free mind doesn’t cause any pain, only a hollow giddiness that makes me grab my phone to play music.
The melody fills the void of silence, though the lack of company sings louder. I need more than just letters or random texts. I crave conversation and physical touch. I can’t even remember the last time Evan and I were intimate. It must have been at least four months ago, and there was nothing memorable about it.
When I’ve eaten more than I have in weeks and the wine has done superior work at making me feel better than any of Dr. Mallory’s drugs, I reach for my phone and go into the message thread with the ‘unknown sender’.