The death obsession chapter 2

Until my stalker stopped caring about Evan’s presence.

Evan’s snore is the only sound to be heard in the small space of my room.

It’s too early for the dog upstairs to start barking or for the kids downstairs

to start watching their shows before school. All the neighbors say that, at

night, I’m the only sound in the complex, wailing or whimpering when the

night terrors hit. Evan says I don’t always have nightmares; sometimes I

just talk in my sleep, but I don’t always remember what the dreams are

about. The only dreams I do remember are of the accident, and that’s when

the screaming starts.

That’s why Evan prefers that we live separately, because he needs to ‘stay

sharp’ for his job. He says he can’t do that if I wake him from his sleep with

my ‘ramblings.’

When I lay next to Evan once a week, I try not to sleep, worried I’ll wake

him. I try so hard to stay awake, I swear I do. But Dr. Mallory’s medication

always puts me to sleep, even for just a few hours.

Inching the blankets down my bare legs, I creep across the room, not daring

to look down at my body until the wooden panels beneath my feet turn to

cold tile and the dull luminescent light of the bathroom glares down on me.

Slowly, my eyes drop from my disheveled dark brown hair, down to the

symbol painted on my chest and the black hand prints around my ample

thighs, not hidden under my singlet and shorts. I can’t see the twenty-

centimeter scar along my stomach, or any of the other scars covering my

body from the accident, but I know they're there.

I bite my tongue to stifle a sob and tear my gaze away from the mirror.

Unfurling my fingers from around the note, I see the letter under the dull

light and foolishly hope no words will look back at me. But as always, the

cursive words taunt me: You look beautiful when you sleep.

I’m not sure which is more foolish: The fact that I’m hoping I’ll find the

words missing, or the fact that I hope the letters never stop.

Squeezing my eyes shut. I reach for a washcloth, not waiting for the water

to warm before soaking the black fabric. I drop the letter on the vanity and

distract myself with my own reflection. I can’t help but touch the marks he

left behind on my thighs. The mark left behind is far larger than my own

hands, which is just more proof that I’m not crazy. I’ve stopped trying to

convince people I’m not insane, but it’s vindicating to have physical proof.

Used to cleaning the charcoal marks from my skin, I’m back in my room

before much time passes and sliding open the drawer holding almost

everything the Faceless Man has ever given me. The letter lands on top of

one of the shoe boxes filled with the hundreds of notes he’s left me. It’s

next to the pile of black bird feathers and the skulls of various animals.

I can’t bring myself to throw any of them away, as some kind of tangible

proof that I have not lost all of my sanity. Well, at least I tell myself that’s

the real reason why.

I’ve given up collecting the flowers he leaves me as they rot in a manner of

days. All except one. My attention darts to the stemless lily sitting in the

corner of the drawer, still full of life even after a year and a half of living in

the cold prison of a wooden drawer. It’s a coffin, just with less space.

With a shaky breath, I push the drawer full of the Faceless Man’s gifts back

into the darkness and slip between the cold sheets to lie next to a man who

doesn’t know those letters are the only reason I’m alive.

I wish I had died that day.

My mind darkens into nothing but white noise as the clock ticks by. Minute

after minute. Hour after hour. It all passes in a blink while I’m safe in the

comfort of my own mind. Until eventually, the clock beeps.

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