I’ve made a rule not to check my locker as soon as I start because I never know what I might find in there.
The morning goes by in a flurry of orders, and like Evan suggested, I try harder. I plaster a charming smile on my face even though I know it doesn’t meet my eyes, and I ask ungrateful customers about their morning. As Evan said, I’m out of bread and he’s not working as much, meaning that I can’t steal packets of instant noodles and granola bars from his house without him noticing. Unless I asked… No, I promised myself never to ask him. So I have to earn some money.
It’s just a coffee shop. No one tips well when they’re just trying to get their dose of caffeine on the way to a job they likely hate after probably needing to wrestle getting their kids into a car and then sit in traffic for the next hour. If I were in their position, I’d be in no mood for small talk and forking out extra cash for the barista that’s making me face my terrible life.
The rush dies down, and the tip jar remains as pathetically empty as it was yesterday. A lone glass of water atop the counter summons me closer, left discarded by one of the customers. As I pick it up, I become deaf to my surroundings, suddenly transfixed on the reflection of the water: a dark cloud hidden beneath a hood.
Awareness prickles my skin and I narrow my eyes at the reflection.
A soft breath fans the side of my face before whispering, “Soon, my night monster.”
The glass drops from my hand as I spin around, even though I know that I won’t find him there. Instead, I swear I see Dahlia standing on the other side of the window outside. But she isn’t there either.
My heart thunders against my chest, and everything crashes back to me, bombarding every one of my senses. The black t-shirt sticking to my back, my black jeans digging into the rolls of my stomach and my scars, the smell of coffee, the crying child, the abstract paintings.
Too much. It’s all too much. I want to scream at him to leave me alone. Beg him to show me his face. Was losing them not enough of a punishment for living? Now he has to haunt me, hunt me, taunt me. What does he think he’ll get? Does he want to break me? Well, I’m already broken. Hurt me? Fine, I know what pain is. But this? Whatever twisted game this is, it needs to end. Even if I’ve sometimes enjoyed it.
I’m not entirely sure the Faceless Man is real but I know for certain that I’m imagining Dahlia. She’s dead. She’s never coming back. I just need to face her. One day. Not today, I tell myself.
I stumble back when soft hands touch my skin, thinking that they’re his. And for a split second, the one word that crosses my mind at the touch is finally.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you alright, Lili? You’re looking a little pale.” Brit is younger than me, but she’s more put together than I will ever be. Ever the duty manager, she starts cleaning up the mess before I respond, but she glances up at me with her concerned hazel eyes.
I nod, then shake my head. “I’m going for a break, just a dizzy spell.”
“Well, you can take the rest of the day off—”
“No,” I blurt. I can’t afford to miss any work. “I just haven’t eaten, that’s all.”
I try to hide my trembling hands in my apron, and force myself not to look around to see if I can catch him staring at me. Or worse, to imagine Dahlia again.
She frowns, but nods her head. I run to the break room before she can change her mind and let one of the other staff take their break first. My bag is on the table where I left it, and I fumble with the zipper and rummage through its contents until the orange pill bottle is in my grasp. I swallow the medication dry without looking at it first, biting the inside of my cheek to stop myself from choking on the rancid taste.
My head falls forward between my shoulders as I grip the table, trying to get my breathing back when I notice my phone peeking out of my bag. He texted me. That means I can finally respond and let him know exactly what I think of his games.
I waste no time pulling out the phone to tap out a message.
Me: Leave me alone!
Unknown Sender: Never, my precious flower.
My breath catches once more, then again when I remember that it’s time to face my locker. Brit always reprimands me for being the only staff to leave their belongings on the table. Saying that the owner was nice enough to get us lockers, so we should use them, and that a messy break space leads to a messy workspace.
The few steps it takes to get to my locker are filled with foreboding. Maybe a hint of excitement. I never know what lingers behind the pale blue aluminum door. Maybe a gift? Another letter?
He left the first letter on the pillow beside my head.
We meet again, my night monster.
I had just got out of the hospital two weeks prior, and the letter almost sent me right back. I boiled it down to a sick joke, and forgot about it, focused on recovering and grieving; at least tried to do the latter.
I can still hear everyone tell me that it’s a miracle that I’m alive, that no one should have survived the crash that was meant to kill me. It almost killed me. I wish it did. I was in a coma for a month, then hospitalized for another month before they sent me home with nothing but pain meds and the trauma to keep me company.
Right before the car wrapped around the tree, I had felt the call: Death. I was ready for it to take me with open arms.
But it didn’t want to take me.
It took my sister instead. She and her deadbeat boyfriend who got behind the wheel after insisting that he only had one bottle.
Dahlia’s dead, and I’m alive. My other half. My twin.
They didn’t mention anything about hallucinations after the accident, even though I told them that there was a man in a hood standing by my bed, that he left a single lily on top of my chest. The doctors waved it off as a side effect of the medication and the shock of losing Dahlia. I told them that it was the Grim Reaper. But they looked at me with a strained expression and told me to just rest.
A phase, they called it.
I brought the lily home, because after a month it hadn’t withered away. The nurse said that it must be just like me; a survivor defying all odds. The lily now sits in the darkness of the drawer, surviving again and again and again, just like me. Waiting for a death that never comes. Solace that never happens.
Cockroach, I heard one of Evan’s friends call me after yet another failed attempt at seeing the Grim Reaper. But I’ve stopped attempting. I don’t like failing.
I thought it was just the medication from the hospital that played tricks on my mind. Then I was convinced that it was just an impractical joke. Then I opened my locker at work to find a new lily inside. It withered away days later only to be replaced by another in the locker with a note that read:
You will be mine.
I got mad at Evan, accusing him of playing such a disgusting joke. He denied it, so did everyone else. But still, the letters kept coming, appearing in more places they shouldn’t: in my coat pocket, my car, my handbag. They haven’t stopped since, incessant in nature.
Biting the bullet, I twist the locker door and mentally prepare myself for whatever he might have left me today.
Last time it was a rose quartz skull, the time before that it was caviar—I told Brit that I’d never tried it. Before that, a wad of cash—the most practical gift that he has ever left me. But he always leaves me with at least one lily, whether it’s at home or at work. Always a single white lily.
I open the door and a tremor runs down my spine as I reach for the brown parchment and unroll the thick paper, the feeling of being watched prickling my neck.
Not even a sunrise compares to your beauty.