Page 48 of Melancholia

Unless the universe is trying to tell me something by sending me two separate at-home colon cancer screening kits.

“Heck,” I grumble, running a hand through my long black hair. It’s still soft from my shower last night, though my fingers snag in a few tangles that make me wince.

When my phone buzzes again, I pick it up, still in the throes of Ativan that make it oh so easy to tap the screen and open the message.

Are you hiding from me, little mortician?

Well, no. I’m not really. But the Ativan coma probably made it seem like I am. Though by his words, he’s been waiting for me. Watching for me. That in itself sends a shiver up my spine that I can’t seem to chase away.

No. I type back the word and send it without explanation. He doesn’t get one of those.

I see.

His reply is just as short and clipped as mine, and my fingers tap against the sides of my phone, waiting. Sure enough, he starts typing again, and it doesn’t take long for the next message to appear on the black screen.

It’s time for our next game.

My stomach sinks, though thankfully not that far, thanks to the medication buffer. If there’s ever a time I’m going to win one of these games, it’ll be tonight; while my emergency medication works to keep the worst of my anxiety away. Not only that, but with it being so fresh in my system, I doubt I’ll see any ghosts tonight.

But when it wears off⁠—

I snap that thought off like a dry, brittle branch. I know I’ll crash a little when it’s out of my system. But I refuse to care.

Where? I type back, and I once again drag my fingers through my hair. The tangles come out easily, thank God, so it’s easy for me to pull it up into a high ponytail to get it out of my way.

I’ll send you the address. Wear the outfit I sent you, Nell. Or this game ends, and you won’t like the consequences.

His next message is a link to a map location. I don’t open it because there’s no point in worrying until I have to.

Thank God for Ativan. That’s the only way I’m able to quickly get dressed in the sweater and skirt he gave me. The jawbone is heavy at my throat, and I reach up, considering taking off his first gift.

But then my hand falls back to my side and I sigh, knowing I’m being stupid as hell about it. I shouldn’t want the necklace.

Yet it feels like mine now, which has to count for something. Hopefully, those kinds of thoughts will chase away any bad vibes left over from the man who gave it to me. My fingers stroke along the black-coated bone, my thumb tracing the moonstone embedded at its base. Yet again, I wonder how a murderer could give me the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever gotten in my life, yet my own friends back home, and my family⁠—

There’s another thought I cut off, and I let out a quick huff at my twinge of heartache. “You’re doing this to yourself, Nell,” I whisper, but I stop in front of my mirror, telling myself I just want to make sure I don’t look ridiculous.

I don’t.

The fabric of the charcoal grey sweater is thick and soft. Knitted in patterns that trail from the hem to the neckline. I love the way the sleeves billow until they reach my elbows, and then narrow to hug my arms the rest of the way down, where they end over my thumbs. The skirt is softer than it looks, with pleats that I run my hands over, though I have to adjust the skirt a few times to make sure it covers more than just my upper thighs. The dark plum almost seems to glitter when I turn to make the pleats ruffle, and a smile touches my lips.

My hands go up to my hair and I tug it free from the messy ponytail, letting the black waves curl down my shoulders to my chest. Running my hands through it again makes it settle better, and when I stare at myself in the mirror once more, I almost don’t recognize the person staring back at me.

“How do you know what I look good in, Amir?” I whisper, knowing I won’t have the guts to ask him that myself. “Why are you so good at this?”

More importantly, why is he such a bad fucking person? Something in me aches for the possibilities of everything I can’t have with him. He’s a monster, and he only wants to play games he knows I’ll lose. Or worse, that I’ll regret winning.

Somehow, even though I won the game of saying his name, it didn’t feel like a win at all. It felt too intimate. Too personal, with the way his name felt when I breathed it out across my lips. Did I really win?

Or did he just prove he could get me to play along if I felt I had a chance of winning?

That thought is an unpleasant one, and I tuck my hair back from my face. Part of me really wants to keep it down, but I know if there’s anything physical involved with this game, I’ll regret it. So I ruefully and slowly pull my hair back up again. But this time, using the mirror, I take more care to fix it into a bun that I feel looks better than the ponytail did.

It isn’t for him, I assure myself as I tug on a pair of knee-high black boots without much of a heel. It’s for me. Because I like the way I look.

In the clothes and necklace given to me by a murderer.

“Come on, Ativan,” I sigh as I grab my phone and keys. “Don’t fail me now. We have a game to win and trauma to work through.” My words are dry and unamused as I head down the stairs, and I can’t help feeling like I’m heading to a funeral.