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But he didn’t come back. Not for the space of six meals.
A few hours later—I wasn’t sure if it was hours, as time seemed to crawl by, so it could have been an hour or a day—when the door opened again, it wasn’t Death who entered.
All my resolve, all the courage I’d thought I’d gathered, all the strength and drive I had built up, dissolved when that door opened and another man entered.
The only sound was that of my gasp. He was almost as tall as Death but built differently, his body almost paunchy although still strong. He had dark hair and black spots for eyes, his skin tanned and leathery. I’d guess him to be in his late thirties but for the look in his eyes, which seemed ancient. I couldn’t see his face. He had a black bandanna draped over his nose and mouth.
I pulled the blanket to me.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, locking it and pocketing the key. He carried a tray of food and two bottles of water.
I started to salivate at the smell of rice and chicken wafting from the takeaway box. I sat up straighter, unable to drag my eyes away from it. My stomach growled, and the man chuckled. As he came closer, I inched away but stayed on the bed with the blanket covering me. His eyes remained hard as they watched me, and he set the tray down on the nightstand.
He then produced a fork. A real fork, not a plastic one. “You get one chance with this. If you think you can try to stab me with it or do anything else stupid, I’ll whip your ass and dump your next meal on the floor for you to lick it off, understand?”
I swallowed, wanting the food, my gaze locked on the man’s. I nodded.
He held the fork out to me. I hesitated, knowing this was a challenge from the way he raised an eyebrow.
I reached out, intending on grabbing the fork out of his hand without touching him, but he had other plans. As soon as I was close enough, he snatched my wrist and yanked me toward him, twisting my arm as he did.
I cried out in pain.
“I’m not playing fucking games, we clear on that?”
“Yes! You’re going to break my arm!”
He tugged once more, smiling as he yanked another cry from me, then released me and set the fork down on the tray.
“Eat it all,” he said. He turned around and walked back out the door like our exchange was the most casual thing in the world.
Once the door locked behind him, I picked up the box and fork and opened the lid. Chicken and rice and even a side of broccoli. How thoughtful to give me my veggies. It was bland but warm, and I ate every last rubbery bite, forcing myself to slow down so I wouldn’t throw it up. My body needed this fuel. I needed it if I had any hope of surviving.
The stranger threw me. Was Death gone? Had he quit? Could you do that in his line of work?
I almost laughed at that last thought, drained the second bottle of water, and sat back, feeling better for having eaten. When was the last time I’d had something warm? How long had I been here, and how long had Victor kept me prisoner before turning me over to Death? How long ago had Mateo died?
For five more meals, the man with the beady black eyes came, checked that I’d eaten everything, took the trash and left me with new food. By the third delivery, I started to ask questions: what day it was, what time, where was Death? He never answered a single one. It seemed we were getting on a regular schedule, though, with the meals. Maybe two in a twenty-four-hour period? I couldn’t be sure, but I was starving between them.
The delivery of the seventh meal changed everything. Just as I was starting to get more comfortable, even considering using my fork to do the very thing he warned me not to do, everything changed.
That was when Death returned.
He came when I was sleeping. It was night. No sunlight penetrated the slats of wood over the windows. I woke to find him inside the room, standing at the foot of the bed, watching me. I startled, screamed, and scrambled as close to the top of the bed as I could, the blanket bunched up in my arms, a barrier between him and me.
He wore his mask again. It took me a minute, but I knew it was him. I knew it from his body, from the way he moved. It was as though he screamed power.
“Didn’t meant to startle you.”
His voice mocked me. He walked around the bed, and it took all I had not to scream again, not to run to the other side of the room to get away from him. He’d changed. He was different. He was cocky, a bastard, like in the very beginning.
