Page 49 of Melancholia

My funeral, as it were.

I just hope this game doesn’t end terribly, or that it really is something I can win.

The fact there are no other cars in the parking lot of some cemetery I’ve never heard of feels…not great. As I check my map again, making sure this is where I need to be, the coffee I snagged on my way out seems to curdle in my stomach, making me nauseous.

Hestia had looked at me when she thrust the coffee into my hand, wiggling her brows. “You look adorable. Date night? Find someone actually worth spending time with in this town?” With her wide grin and friendly words, I had such a hard time telling her otherwise.

So I didn’t. I went along with it, figuring the discomfort just read like embarrassment instead of something unfortunate. I don’t want her asking questions.

I don’t want anyone to have to deal with whatever I’ve gotten myself into by just doing my job.

My thumb swipes over the face of my phone until I’m back to my messages, and I wonder if I should ask him what I’m supposed to do. If he’s not here, does it mean he’s not coming?

That hope is short-lived as the symbol for Amir typing appears at the bottom left-hand of my screen.

Hide.

One word. Just one, and it makes my stomach twist itself into an origami swan without hesitation. But I still just sit there. I may be stupid, but I don’t understand.

So I send back a question mark.

?

He’s quick to answer, his response coming after just a few seconds of typing.

Hide and seek, little mortician. You have the whole cemetery. Anywhere inside the big iron fence. If I can’t find you within an hour, you win. If I do, then I win.

What happens if you win?

I can’t help but type the message back, even though I know by now that when he’s decided we’re playing something, I’d better get on board…quick. Otherwise, I worry that next time, I won’t just get a picture of someone I care about.

You should be finding somewhere to hide so you don’t find out.

That makes my stomach twist again, and I’m out of my car before I can even think of doing something stupid like drive away.

Or wait in my car and drive over him.

The night air is chilly, making me wish I did something smart like put on a pair of leggings. Even as I have the thought, however, I know that was never really an option. He told me what to wear. And showed me the start of consequences.

I don’t want to find out what comes after a picture.

“Okay. Fuck.” I stumble through the cemetery gates, looking around with my phone light at first. But when I realize the light of the moon overhead works a little better and won’t make me stand out in the dark, I tap the screen to turn off the light.

If only I played hide-and-seek at any point recently, maybe I’d have a better idea of where to hide. Behind a grave feels both smart and stupid. There are enough of them that he’d have to check quite a few if I’m lucky. But the cemetery is open enough that I doubt it’ll be very hard to see me by moonlight. Especially as the moon shifts in the sky.

“That’s stupid. You’re being stupid.” But at least I’m not panicking. Though right now, that silver lining doesn’t feel like enough. I know the only reason I’m not about to jump into the nearest pond and hide underwater until he goes away or I drown is the Ativan. It keeps my panic in my chest, putting boundaries around it, keeping it beating against padded walls until the medication wears off.

This way, I can at least think through it, rather than succumb to it. Though I worry it makes me a little sloppy, and a little less able to be careful. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem. My usual post-Ativan routine involves movies, bed-rotting, and social media scrolling.

Not playing hide-and-seek in a cemetery.

My quick, almost jogging steps take me up and down the rows, peering up at statues I could never climb, and once under a bench near the pound where the ground is covered in duck shit. The revulsion of how that would feel on my knees is enough to make me shudder and pull away, and I move on.

At last my steps slow, and I gaze up into the facade of a very custom, very pricy, family mausoleum. It’s new enough that the marble still glitters where names have been carved into it, and I can’t help but reach out to trail my fingers down one of the textured, ridged pillars.

“Oh, this is not a good idea. You are really tempting fate, and your mental health,” I whisper to myself. The bodies inside don’t bother me. But the possibility of churning up my ghosts for the next six months definitely does.

My other hand closes on the grate of the door and I tug, surprised when it opens easily enough that I stumble backward. Then I wait for something inside me to scream that it’s too much. It’s too terrible of an idea for me to hide in an actual, active mausoleum.