Page 10 of All the Things We Buried

NINE

LENORE

L ately, sleep refused to come. I stayed awake most nights, not out of insomnia, but hope. Hope that he might appear in the doorway, lean against the frame like he used to, watching me. Pretending to check if I was asleep, pretending he still cared.

He lived in my mind constantly, pressing into every thought, every breath. There was no escaping him. He haunted me.

I didn’t have a phone. Just an old, heavy, black landline phone with a round dial plate that was punctuated with finger holes, each corresponding to a number from zero to nine. And it was always sitting next to the bedside lamp. I only kept it for emergencies. But tonight, it rang.

I answered without thinking. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Sophie said, her voice already smiling. “Are you coming out?”

“I’m not allowed,” I said flatly.

“Not even for an hour?” she teased. “Dorian’s here. Brought a redhead with him. Thought that might get you moving.”

My chest tightened. “I still can’t.”

She laughed, too lighthearted, like she wasn’t listening. “Should I try my luck with him tonight? He seems willing enough.”

“Isn’t it dangerous to be out?” I snapped. “There are still kids missing. Teenagers. Girls.”

“Dorian’s strong. He can handle it,” she said sweetly. “We could finally be sisters-in-law.”

I looked at myself in the mirror. My reflection didn’t blink.“I could be there in an hour,” I said softly. “Just to be your wingwoman.”

“Perfect. What if I pick you up with my cousin?”

“Good idea.”

“Thirty minutes then? At the old spot?”

“Yes.”

“Byeeee.”

The moment I hung up, I moved like something had taken over me.

I tore through my closet, dragging clothes out.

Nothing felt right. I had nothing to wear.

But the red dress caught the corner of my eye.

It was short. Tight around the waist. I forgot Vivian got it for me for one of her tea parties she hosted.

I took off my clothes and ran to the bathroom, my heart pounding so fast. I stole red lipstick from my stepmother’s drawer weeks ago.

I wanted to teach myself how to put a perfect shade of red on my lips, just as my mom used to.

Tonight, I needed to be unforgettable. I needed Dorian to see no one else.

I turned on the shower. Steam poured into the air, curling against the tiles. The mirror fogged over in seconds, and everything began to blur. The bathroom turned quieter, with just the sound of water.

But then something grabbed me. Fingers twisted in my hair and yanked.

I screamed, spun around, and froze.

She was standing in the shower with me.

Soaked. Rotten. Skin hanging in gray sheets from her face. Her mouth was stretched open, teeth black and broken. Water dripped from the strands of her black hair. Her eyes were white and burned with a rage I had never seen in life.

My mother.

Dead.

Screaming.

Her voice was a rasping, gurgling wail that clawed through my ears and filled the room. I stumbled backward, slipped, and collapsed in the corner of the shower. My limbs refused to move. I couldn’t scream again. I couldn’t even breathe.

I curled into myself, shaking so violently I thought my bones might break into pieces. The water beat down on me, too hot now, like punishment.

Then, in the fogged mirror, words started to appear:

YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE.

I sat there, staring at those words, while the ghost of my mother left with the steam. And something inside me cracked open.

I didn’t want to go anymore. I didn’t want to see Sophie. I didn’t want to pretend. I didn’t want to chase a man who would never love me, who was never mine to begin with.

I would rather drown here, in this shallow grave of water and grief, than keep living a lie.

I was done.

The razor sat near the shower, shiny under the fogged light like it had been waiting for me. I reached for it slowly, fingers trembling, water still dripping from my skin.

I held it. Watched it.

Then, without thinking, without blinking, I pressed the blade against my skin. Slowly. Letter by letter.

N

O

T

E

N

O

U

G

H

Every time the razor ripped my skin, something inside me calmed. Like I was finally in control. Like I was shaping the pain instead of drowning in it. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t weak. I was carving truth into myself. Proof that I still felt something, proof that I existed.

When words failed, pain spoke to me, and it never lied.

I didn’t even hear the front door open. Didn’t hear the footsteps. Only when I saw his shadow move across the steamed bathroom tiles did I look up.

Dorian.

He stood frozen, staring at me, curled in the shower, blood mixing with the water, the words still bleeding across my thighs.

His face paled. His eyes went wide. He moved towards me. Fast.

He pulled me out, wrapped me in a towel, and held me like his little rag doll.

I felt so tiny in his hands. He was holding me together but breaking me apart.

He took me to the bedroom, and as we entered, I saw Sophie standing in the doorway.

She wore the same red dress I had planned to wear. My breath hitched.

He chose her. Did he always choose her?

Sophie’s voice cracked. “Oh my God, Lenore, are you okay?”

Her eyes went wide, but she wasn’t afraid. More embarrassment. Maybe annoyed. Her hand tugged the red dress down as if it had suddenly become too tight.

And he, he didn’t look at me. He looked at her.

“I think it’s best if I call Cameron to come get you,” he said coldly. “Lenore’s not going anywhere tonight.”

“But…” she started. Then stopped.

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say more, but she just rolled her eyes and turned away. The sound of her heels clapping against the wooden floor echoed down the hallway until the door slammed shut.

Silence.

Dorian set me gently on the bed, his hands careful, trying not to hurt me.

“Why?” he whispered. “Why did you do this?”

He reached out, traced a finger lightly along the wound. His touch was so soft it made me shiver.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, turning away. I pulled the blanket over my body, over the towel, over the shame.

He said nothing.

He walked to the closet, took the red dress, and placed it back on its hanger like it wasn’t even out, like it wasn’t meant for him. Then he pulled out a pajama set and set it beside me on the bed.

“You’re staying home,” he said quietly. He didn’t wait for me to answer.

I didn’t move, I didn’t even say thank you. He stayed there for a minute, I could hear him breathing, but I was too seen to say a thing. So it was easier for him to walk out and close the door behind him.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating me.

I felt exposed. Not just physically, but like something inside me had been cracked open for them to see. Sophie had come here to flirt, to sleep with him. And he probably would’ve let her.

I was supposed to be invisible, but now they had seen me. Really seen me.

And somehow that hurt more than being ignored.

I curled deeper under the blanket, heart pounding, face hot with shame. The one place I thought was safe felt invaded. Like the walls had fallen, and nothing was mine anymore.

I didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t want to be pitied. I just wanted to disappear.

If this is what love feels like, I don’t want it. I know I’m just some stupid teen with a crush on the first man who made me feel seen, who made me feel loved . But this… this can’t be fake. Can it? He cared. I know he did.

Then why does it feel like I’m falling apart? Why can’t we be together? Why won’t life just let us be ? Why do people always tear apart the ones who were meant for each other?

If this is what true pain feels like, I don’t want that either. Maybe I don’t understand it all. Maybe I am too young. But this, this pain, it doesn’t feel like something I was supposed to survive.

Why does it hurt so much? Why does it hurt worse than tearing my own skin open?

Why can’t I just say how I feel? Maybe I was never meant to speak. Maybe I was meant to be silent. Just a ghost, breathing in the walls of this house.

Am I stupid?

I could hear a soft note playing from the piano downstairs. Then another.

Für Elise.

The sound was fragile, threading through the walls, curling into the silence around, making me freeze. The first tear slipped free without warning, tracing down my cheek. Then another.

He’s playing. He’s speaking. In the only way he can.

Because neither of us knew how to speak what we felt.

Why is it so hard to communicate? Why is it so hard to just say it ?

But maybe…Maybe it was easier this way. Maybe he didn’t want ghosts to know that he felt the same. Maybe he thought that if they knew, they would ruin it for us. The same way people do when they know.

Maybe he wasn’t cold. Maybe he was terrified of being seen. So he played his feelings through songs and prayed I wouldn’t stop listening.

And I never would.

I got up and leaned against the doorframe. I pressed a hand to my mouth, and I listened. Every note. Every breath between keys. I listened to Für Elise, I listened to his feelings, because we were both too proud, too scared, to speak.