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’.
My fingers start moving across the keyboard, only for my drunken mind to think of something better. Brazen and completely idiotic, I rush into my bedroom and tear out a page from my notebook and scrawl:
Join me next time.
Instead of rolling the paper, I fold it into what has to be one of the worst paper planes I have ever made and leave it exactly where he left my letter.
I place the fancy new cutlery in the kitchen sink and run water over it, not trusting myself to wash it in this state.
I check that the paper plane is exactly where he left his note, and lock myself in the bathroom. The floor spins beneath me and I’m not quite sure how I feel about leaving a message for him. I’m basically inviting him to keep haunting me. It was a stupid idea, ridiculous, really.
I don’t wait for the water to warm before stepping under the showerhead. I want it to wash away my thoughts and all the scars on my body that the accident left behind.
He clearly has no intention of actually speaking to me. If he hasn’t done so in a year, it makes very little sense that he will start now. But he’s becoming so much more forward now, testing the boundaries that I thought he put in place.
Dread becomes a second heartbeat in my chest. What if he sees it and doesn’t respond? But what if he sees it and does join me? I don’t know which one would be worse: meeting my stalker, getting rejected by him, or becoming penpals with him?
I don’t know how long I stand there, swaying from foot to foot, while my thoughts play in a loop. Eventually the water turns cold again and I rush out before it can chill me to the bone.
The threadbare towel barely holds when I wrap it around my body. It strains against my breasts and I have to clutch the fabric just in case I flash someone from the apartments across the street.
A swirl of emotions clogs my throat when I find that my paper plane has been replaced with another brown parchment. I brace myself for the rejection, to be told that it was the worst idea he’s ever heard. Instead, heat burns my skin and the air around me becomes too much to handle.
You are the only thing that I will be tasting.
When I think of the other night’s dream, it isn’t his fingers I’m imagining in my mouth, but his cock. I’d taste him and imprint it into memory. I’ll look up and see nothing but darkness beneath his hood, the storm becoming angrier with each rumble of his chest. He’ll pound into me, tearing me from the inside out, and every moment will feel like ecstasy. Lightning will light up the sky as he releases himself into my mouth.
I shift my hips and try to dispel the imagery and feelings as wetness pools between my legs. I tear another page out of my notebook and scribble:
Then let me see you.
I fold the note into an origami crane and place it where his letter sat, then pack away the leftovers while nursing another glass of wine. There’s enough left for me not to worry about food for the next couple of days. Thank you, Faceless Man.
When the bench is completely cleared and the candle snuffed out, I pad drowsily over to my bedroom, slip into my robe, then crawl beneath the sheets.
Just before sleep takes me, I realize three things: I didn’t take my medication, I’m still wearing his necklace, and my paper crane wasn’t on the bench when I went to bed.
Chapter four
Lilith
Darkness swirls above, a pool of ink and charcoal. I swear I can see faces in the shadows, ascending into the beyond.
I’ve heard that black holes are stars that have collapsed in on themselves and when they do, shockwaves ripple into space, never to be complete again. From then on, a once shining star becomes a waste of space, living dead, pulling gravity so that not even light can escape.
My fingers twitch, wanting to reach for it, wanting to be pulled into the bowels of obsidian so that maybe when I close my eyes, I finally won’t open them again.
Light reaches for the edges of the darkness, like murky waters clawing at the sand. The orange light of a hundred candles flickers and dances across the trees, casting skeletal shadows from the leaves. It smells like an extension of the Faceless Man, the sinister side that will only come out at night. Despite the ominous place, I feel like I’ve seen it somewhere before.
My heart skips a beat when I actually feel my surroundings. Instead of a damp forest floor, I’m splayed across a bed of the softest velvet. The chill of the air doesn’t bite my skin. Insects hum all around, and at once, the orchestra stops.
“You look beautiful in your bed. But you are utterly breathtaking in mine.”
I gasp as I jolt upright to see him leaning against a tree, and I’m winded by the sight of him. His face is still concealed beneath his hood, but his sleeveless cloak parts to reveal a gallery of moving tattoos along his skin, and pants that hang dangerously low on his hips. Everything about him is deadly, and pure sin. Each shadow cast across each muscle on his stomach is another nail in my coffin, pushing me deeper and deeper into the bed.
I track each swirling tattoo across his chest and down his arms. In the flickering candlelight, shadows dance along his forearms and hands, making each protruding vein seem intimidating and mouth-watering. I wonder what those hands would look like wrapped around my neck. Would his tattoos mock me as he takes me to within an inch of my life, squeezing tighter and tighter while light dances behind my vision?