Death's Obsession

Oh god, he’s going to kill me if he doesn’t stop.

I buckle and try to reach beneath Letum’s hood to grab onto his hair, but he stops me in a death grip, holding me down as he licks me clean. The sounds of his approval and lust vibrate through my sensitive core, forcing another sky splitting scream.

He removes his fingers and settles his weight on top of me, rubbing the remnants of my desire along my lips.

“Taste what I taste,” he orders.

I’m too delirious to do anything but comply, flicking my tongue out and licking myself clean off his fingers. Then I notice a gold band around his finger, the same thickness and inscription as the one he’s given me, even wearing it on the same finger.

“You are mine, Lilith. You belong to me.”

Chapter nine

Lilith

It has been three days since Letum took Evan. During that time, his parents managed to throw together a funeral, and I have barely left my bed. Until now. Where death hangs in the air of the church, but not my Death.

Guilt strapped me to the sheets. Not for what I’m meant to be guilty about. Evan’s blood is on my hands. I live, and he doesn’t.

What would have happened if I didn’t sit in the middle seat of the car that night? What if I had sat behind the driver’s seat like I usually do? It was out of character for me to sit in the middle seat because I hated how hard the cushioning always was. I always thought I saw too much when I sat in the middle. For some reason, that night, out of all the nights, I had the urge to sit in the middle.

The voice in the back of my head says that it was fate. So that I could meet Letum. But I’m not sure if that voice is only saying it because I haven’t had a single pill since Evan died.

My mom used to say that it was fate that I got a job before I even graduated. She said that it was fate when she was diagnosed with stage four bowel cancer a month after my father died from it. She’d say that fate was good to her and gave her twins so that Dahlia and I would never be alone.

Fuck fate. I want to spit and rage at how unfair it all is.

I wonder if the obsidian-haired girl thinks that it's fate that she found a man only to lose him. I overheard her tell Carol, Evan’s mom, that she was close with her son. Olivia, she called herself. They sobbed into each other’s arms like old friends. The obsidian-haired woman—Olivia—isn’t wearing a blue cardigan this time, but a tight fitted black dress. Evan would have loved that dress.

I watch her from my spot next to the bathroom door. People file in and offer their condolences, all while she stands next to the family like she’s the one who held the title of ‘the girlfriend’. As far as I know, maybe she did to everyone else but me and Evan’s parents.

Does standing where I should be standing help her grieve? She hasn’t had the months that I’ve had to mourn him, so I’m sure the only thing to call myself is lucky. And cursed.

Some people nod at me, some give me the same pitiful look that I haven’t stopped seeing since the accident. When Nate looks at me, guilt isn’t hidden underneath the pity; it’s only pity this time. He knew what Evan was doing and didn’t tell me. He heard Evan call me crazy. Look at where we are now.

The rest of Evan’s flatmates file in behind Nate. They all knew, and they said nothing. Each one of their backs straightens or tenses when they see Olivia with the family, and me alone in the corner. They smile meekly at me before rushing to take their place inside the church Evan had no faith in.

No one has mentioned the elephant in the room: that he died of an overdose. Every third person would say something along the lines of how he was so filled with life and that he was such an exemplary young man.

Exemplary implies that he wouldn’t touch drugs. Exemplary implies that he wouldn’t gaslight his ‘girlfriend’.

He was exemplary in his earlier days. The accident made him wicked—no, not wicked, broken. Evan was my anchor, except the rope was too short and it kept me drowning below the surface. Now the rope has been cut, and in time, my body will decompose and float to the surface. Whether that’s scientifically possible, I’m not sure. Science stopped having meaning when Death came into my life.

Earlier, Carol had come up to me and said, “It must be so hard. Losing your whole family, then the man you were going to start a family with.”

I bit my tongue and smiled at her because there was nothing I could say. The truth of what her son was like was on the tip of my tongue, but I decided to keep my awfulness to myself. Everyone can mourn and grieve alongside their last memory of Evan. I will too, except, my grief doesn’t feel like pain; it feels like freedom.

I lean against the wall for support as a brain zap renders me momentarily useless. The nausea spells started this morning. I don’t need Dr. Mallory to tell me what the side effects of going off my medication are, especially when I didn’t wean myself off it but instead, stopped taking them completely. Cold turkey, as they call it.

The service starts, and everyone still in the foyer takes their place along one of the many pews. Just like the night of the accident, I get a feeling to stay behind and wait in the foyer.

Goosebumps blanket my skin as the music starts, and the comforting smell of the sea trickles into my soul. I’m not sure what hurts more, that Evan is dead, or that Letum has not made contact since I came undone on his fingers. Again.

When I spin around, my stomach sinks.

He’s not there. Instead, I swear I see Dahlia in the corner of my vision. When I turn, she isn’t there.

I clutch my phone tightly as I pull up our message thread.

Me: Where are you?

I stare at my phone, waiting for a reply that won’t come.

Swallowing the hurt, I force my legs to move and carry me to a pew where I mourn for a man who I have already finished grieving. As I stare at the coffin before the lectern, I yearn for the man who did not want to take my soul.

My apartment is a prison with unlocked doors. I don’t want to step beyond the bars and succumb to the mundane cycle of a meaningless life.

Each morning I wake up hoping to find a brown parchment tucked next to my head, but there’s none. Despite the pain, I still force myself to go to work.

Two weeks. Two. Not a single letter saying that he’s heading out of town for a bit or there’s an influx of souls to collect. Nothing. Not even a stupid flower.

Letum said that he will never let me go. He didn’t say that it was because I would be latching on to him. Why am I mourning the loss of Letum who is Death, rather than Evan, who is dead?

I haven’t taken any of Dr. Mallory’s medication since the day Evan died. At first, it was just because I wasn’t sure whether Letum swapped out the pills. Then it was because I thought I might be able to see him in my dreams. After, I didn’t have a choice because all of the bottles disappeared.

Death’s doing, I assume.

So, he can take the medication keeping my emotions at bay, and at the same time take the one thing that was actually keeping me sane.

When I need him the most.

I grip the counter as another brain zap rattles me, making me tense and relax at the same time. Hopefully, no one noticed.

I had no choice but to call in sick the first week and a half after the funeral. The withdrawals were hitting me like a ton of bricks, and I found myself hurling over the toilet with nothing coming out, and laying in bed partially comatose as another brain zap paralyzed me momentarily.

Without pay and without Letum’s financial contributions, I can’t afford to buy the medications again. Letum’s remaining cash has acted as a buffer, which means that I can still afford rent, electricity, and food, if I actually go out to buy some. So at least there’s that to be grateful for.