Page 43 of Melancholia

At least the food was incredibly good. The bread especially, but the lasagna made me want to lick the plate.

Not that I did. Though maybe if I was more willing to embarrass myself like a disturbed, uncultured swine, then Amir would decide I’m not worth it and leave me alone.

My brain slowly creeps back to the fact that something woke me up before my alarm, and I swing my legs over the side of the bed while glancing down at my phone.

Nine-thirty is far too early for me.

My first order of business is shoving the blackout curtains closed again, so the awful ray of sunshine can’t blind me any longer. In the end, I use a chip bag clip to hold the two pieces of fabric together, unsure why they’re suddenly refusing to stay where I put them.

But that’s a problem for another hour, and another angle of the sun. Preferably no sun. Still, I don’t know why I’m awake. While the sun is annoying, it’s not enough to have woken me up, and I prowl around my apartment, staring at random objects like those will help.

The fridge gives me nothing.

The sink, even less so.

On a whim, I go to my door and unlock it, even though that takes my sleep-clumsy fingers a few tries. I know there won’t be anything there, since I don’t even get my mail up here, but I figure, why not check all of my bases, right?

I don’t even notice the bouquet staring at me from the floor at first; I’m too busy expecting to see absolutely nothing. But when I realize it’s there, I slowly kneel, my fingers outstretched for the dark bundle.

Automatically, I pull it into my arms, only belatedly considering it might be coated with anthrax or some other chemical warfare situation. “What the heck?” I murmur, and I step back into my apartment before closing and locking the door again.

I have no idea what I was expecting, but this certainly isn’t it. I still can’t make sense of it, even as I set the bouquet on the table and run my fingers over the soft, velvety petals of flowers that are still vibrantly alive.

Even if they are black and a very dark burgundy. For a few moments I can only look at them, until I finally realize there’s a card attached to the ribbon wrapped around the dark tissue paper, along with something else.

Surprising even myself, I go for the card instead of the mystery item. It’s easily plucked from where it’s hanging off the ribbon, and I open the black envelope, barely needing to push against the adhesive before I can pull out the dark plum card inside.

Happy belated birthday, my little mortician.

That’s all. Just those words written in flowing silver letters on the matte purple. It’s not signed, but I don’t need it to be. Again I touch the flowers, absently wondering where he got them from, and how he got them here so fast.

Finally I remember the other object tied to the ribbon, the one mostly buried under tissue paper. My fingers finally find it, and I wrap my hand around it before pulling the strange, smooth object free.

A bone?

Placing it on my table, I stare down at the animal jawbone that’s been dipped in something to make it a shiny, perfect black. A moonstone glitters at the base of the jawbone, where a small chain has been attached.

From its size and my amateur knowledge of animal bones, my best guess is that it’s from a fox. But I wouldn’t bet on that. My fingers trace along the shiny, mostly smooth surface, and I know I should throw it and the flowers away.

Amir is a murderer, after all.

On the other hand, this is probably the best birthday gift I’ve ever received in my entire life. Not that there’s much competition from my teenage years. But still.

“Why are you so good at this?” I breathe, only having the nerve to say it out loud because I’m alone. “And why can’t you just treat me like other people do?”

I should throw it away. I should throw it all away.

But instead, I very carefully put the flowers into a big glass, after finding the most stable one I have, before setting them in the middle of my table.

And the necklace goes with me to bed. Around my neck, like a small reminder of Amir that I can’t shake. My eyes drift closed, hand around the piece, and I remind myself that the next time I see him, I know I won’t like him very much. Not when he’s sure to have another game I won’t want to play.

And especially not when he makes me feel all twisted up inside like this without even trying.

16

After the fourth day of not hearing from him, I find myself feeling a little hopeful. Maybe he didn’t like what he found out about me at the restaurant over in Fox Glen. Or maybe he’s dead in a ditch somewhere and I will never have to deal with him ever again.

Both sound like viable options, though if I have my way, I think I’d prefer for Amir’s body to be rotting; serving as a feast for the local fly population.