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A beautiful gift for a beautiful girl.
CHAPTER NINE
LILLITH
"Don't worry, sweetie. You'll be with them soon."
I can’t move, can’t take my eyes off the slow drip… drip… drip…
There's a clicking noise above my head, and I try to make sense of what the bad man is saying. I shake Mommy's shoulder, tears welling and making it hard to see her pretty pale face.
Pale. Why is she so pale? So cold. My mother is supposed to be warm. Warm, and kind, and safe all the time.
"Mommy?" I sniffle, watching that warm red pool around my light-up sneakers. "Mommy, wake up!"
"Mommy's not going to wake up, you stupid fucking brat," the man sneers, pressing something cold and hard to the back of my head. "She's dead. D. E. A. D. Did your fucking egg donor teach you how to spell?" He spits on the ground next to her head, and something hot tightens in my chest.
"Say goodbye, little brat." He laughs, cold and hard, but I can barely hear it over the loud swooshing in my ears. Mommy. Daddy. He killed them. He killed, killed, killed them.
My palms tighten into balls of pure rage, and the petals squish between my fingers. Gone. They're gone, and it's his fault.
Before either of us realizes what's going on, I whip around and sink my teeth into his forearm. The taste of pennies coats my tongue as I clamp my jaw as tight as I can, deaf to his screaming. Realizing I'm not going to let go without a fight, he starts swinging his arm, and my feet leave the ground as he whips me around like a fish caught on a line.
Frantic, he spins and slams me into the alley wall, and the breath leaves my lungs as my body makes impact. White, blinding pain radiates through my bones, my jaw goes slack, and the ground meets me with another painful blow.
"FUCK!" the man screeches, stumbling back and accidentally firing off a shot. It hits the alley wall, spraying bits of rubble into the air—one of which lands squarely in the bad man's eye. A string of curses spew from his mouth, and from the way his voice rises in pitch, he must be in a lot of pain.
"My fucking eye!" he screams, swinging his arm out wildly in my direction. He misses, and his forearm slams into the brick wall above my head, spraying droplets of red onto my face.
Before he has the chance to swing again, I duck out from under him and start sprinting down the alley. I push and push, I swing my arms back and forth as hard as I can, but I don't move. The shadows creep in from my periphery, closing in with curling tendrils of doom, and I know that I won't be able to outrun him.
I can hear him behind me—Closing in, one footstep at a time. Closer, closer, closer…
“Fuck!” I gasp, bolting upright as the contents of my room come back into focus.
I’m safe. I’m in bed. It was just a dream.
Golden light seeps in through the thin part of the curtains, letting me know I slept in far longer than usual. Although it certainly doesn’t feel like it.
I groan, rubbing a hand over my sleep-crusted eyes. The nightmare has plagued me every day this week, and the increased frequency is starting to cause alarm. Before I met the scarred man, I’d have it once a week, tops. But now…
I groan, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Herb taps at my window like usual, but I only have the energy to give him a few scratches and seed before heading to the bathroom. Still half-asleep, I pull the shower curtain back, twisting the nozzle as hot as it will go, and step under the powerful stream. Ice-cold water beats down on my skin, sending my system into a brief period of shock from the temperature change. I grit my teeth against the impulse to pull back even as my lips begin to numb.
When I can’t take a second longer, the water warms. I relax into the stream, my eyes fluttering as the blood rushes back to my extremities. There’s something euphoric about the pleasure that comes after a struggle. The older I get, the more I intentionally put myself in positions of strife just so I can breathe in the high that comes after. After the shitstorm last night, I need all the dopamine I can get.
Thirty minutes later, I step out feeling more human but still exhausted. A yawn tears from my mouth as I stumble to the closet and throw on a pair of scrubs I borrowed from the hospital.
I’m in the process of shoving my second sneaker on when I see it. A single white lily lies at the foot of my bed, its delicate white petals resting on the edge of a scrap of paper.
Dread laces the curiosity in my veins as I pick it up. The faded note is coated with pollen, and I have to shake off some of the orange dust before I can read the messy handwriting. As soon as I do, I wish I hadn’t.
I stumble back, the blood draining from my face. Unlike the last two notes, this one is full of malice. Whether it’s directed at me, I have no idea or desire to find out.
And just what the hell does he mean, lock your doors? I always…
My heart lodges in my throat. When I returned from the cemetery last night, I was too tired to take my clothes off. I must have left it unlocked.
I let out a breath. So he’s pissed I didn’t lock my doors. That’s… sweet, right?
