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DELILAH

F or the first time in my life, the piano doesn’t quiet my thoughts. It makes them more dramatic with the deep notes in the background. I’ve searched every inch of the house, and I can’t find anything to place the masks, the socks, or anything that the freak, Ghost, has made out to be significant.

He’s a little bitch, throwing a tantrum because I can’t remember him. Inconsiderate prick. I’ve clearly had a lot to deal with mentally so I should be given some leeway.

Instead, he stands on the periphery of the property, refusing to engage with me. If I go outside, he’ll walk away. If I taunt him and do what he said by walking through the house naked, he’ll just watch. Nothing I do gets him to approach me or tell me anything.

Even now he doesn’t as I sit taller, ignoring the chill against my bare skin as I play without looking away from him. He’s found me sooner than he usually does when I’m in the studio Asher built. The dark sky doesn’t diminish Ghost’s figure. It makes him stand out as the moon shines down on the open driveway. He’s still dressed in all black, but he’s wearing the modified plague doctor mask and the beak curls down instead of straight ahead.

My fingers slow against the ivory keys, and he begins to sway like it’s controlling him. I stopped watching any audience I had at ten years old. I realized that my parents only wanted me to play the piano so they could be praised for how well I did.

Now, I watch. I can’t take my eyes off my single-member audience as he rocks, unsteady on his feet. One arm is limp at his side, and I miss the note as the ground directly beneath him gets darker. The moon reflects off it when all the other stones are dull due to the dry weather.

It takes a moment but then I see it. There’s something dripping from his hand. He’s not wearing a glove, but his fingers are dark, and I abruptly stand, uncaring about the piece I was playing.

The drips are continuous, and a pool begins to collect beside his feet. He’s still swaying, and I leave the room in a rush, forgetting that I’m naked. My steps thunder down the stairs and I pull the front door open with more force than necessary.

He doesn’t turn at the sound of my steps, he just sways with that horrible dripping like it requires all of his energy to stand. The mask is still covering his face, but I was right about the glove because his left hand is free of a covering and something wet races down his palm.

The dripping.

It’s blood.

My bare feet sink into the stones as I rush forward, and I sound hysterical to my own ears. “Ghost? Why are you bleeding?”

He doesn’t move or stop me from touching him as I grab his sleeve and slowly lift his arm. His gloved hand comes up as he cups my cheek, and his fingers glide over my skin as he traces the edge of my lips with his thumb like he always does. But his voice is lower, more emotional, and there’s less violence in it as he begs, “You’re all I have, Delilah. Please don’t leave me again.”

I freeze with his arm in my hand because he speaks with such depth as though I meant everything to him, so he must have been someone important in my life and the need for answers intensifies.

“I’ve missed you, I’ve missed me, and I still want you.”

He doesn’t sound intoxicated, so he’s probably lost a lot of blood.

I keep my voice gentle as I coax him to follow me. “Let’s go inside.”

His knee wobbles and I grab his side to steady him, but he hisses out in pain.

“Shit, sorry,” I mumble and try to keep him steady as he leans his weight on me. My feet sink further into the loose stones, and he mumbles incoherently as he rests the beak of his mask on my hair. I can’t make out any of the words and that haunting familiarity is there again. It’s never there when he’s angry, only when he softens. I can’t think of a single person in my life who hasn’t shown me their anger, so I should be able to recognize his.

I manage to get him inside and into the kitchen, where he slumps into the dining chair and tips his head back. There’s another mask under the bird head. It covers his neck in black knit fabric and his voice is stronger when he lowers his chin.

“You’ll have to stitch me up.” He raises his bloody hand. “I’m left-handed.”

It’s the most personal thing he’s ever told me, but it still doesn’t help identify who he is. I don’t go around testing people’s dominant hands for fuck’s sake.

I’m suddenly aware of the fact I’m naked and I cross my arms over my chest as I inch backwards with an excuse. “I’ll get towels.”

His small laugh is breathless and ends on a wheeze as I run out of the room and go into the living room. The hoodie I was wearing earlier in the day is folded over the armrest and I throw it over my head before taking towels out of the bathroom. The small hand towels will be good enough until the ambulance arrives to stitch him up.

Going back to him, I lower to my haunches at his side and gently lift his arm to pull his sleeve down. The seam has dried in the edges of the bloodstain, and I wince as it pulls against his skin. The lens of the mask is clearer than the others and I can make out the deep hazel of his eyes, but there’s no other reaction.

He has hazel eyes and dark hair.

The deep slice running from his elbow to just above his wrist curves around his indistinctive forearm and I press the towels to it. The white fibers instantly turn red, and I look up again. His eyes bore into my soul and rob me of air. There’s so much depth to them and the small creases are cast in brown. It’s then I realize that the lens has a film on it and the skin in view doesn’t match the cool tone of his arms and he’s found a way to hide something as unsubstantial as his eye color.

But it doesn’t obstruct his emotions—namely one, pain. That’s all that is staring back at me, and he dips his head as he cups my cheek. I’m holding his bloody arm in two hands, my palm turning sticky from the blood seeping through the towels, but I want to stay here with the warmth of his hand on my skin.

“Tell me you miss me,” he whispers, “even if it’s a lie.”

I can’t breathe and I don’t want to lie to him. I want his secrets even if they’re not tied to mine, but the pain bleeds out in his voice as he says, “One more time. I haven’t had anyone miss me in so long. Make me real again, Delilah.”

“If you tell me something real,” I softly counter.

He assesses me for a beat before he nods, and innocence fills his voice. “I loved you with everything I had. It was only ever you and it has only ever been you.” His voice lowers further, and he looks away. “I’ve never even wanted to touch anyone else. I gave it all to you and wished it stayed that way.”

“How old are you?” I ask, wrapping another towel around the sopping, bloody ones.

“We’re the same age.” He turns his head to look at me again and flattens his hand fully against the side of my face. “But I don’t know since you turned me into this.” His fingers dig into my scalp behind my ear, but his voice is more painful than anything he can do to me. “If you didn’t ruin me, I could live. Why did you have to destroy everything?”

He presses his thumb to the middle of my lips, silencing me, and slowly shakes his head. The hurt in his eyes deepens as I sit beside him with his bloody arm in my hands.

I’ve hurt a lot of people in my life, some intentionally and some for fun, but there’s no one who has ever looked at me the way Ghost is. It’s disappointment and resentment, not just anger. He closes his eyes, removing the small amount of insight I had into him as he whispers, “Come here, koukla mou.”

I slowly stand and my voice comes out weak. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

The refusal is instant and his eyes snap open with violent fear. “No.” Softening slightly, he adds, “Why do I need a doctor when you’re here?”

He drops his hand from my cheek and grabs the front of my hoodie with more strength than he should have, considering his injury, to haul me forward and I’m too focused on not jolting the wounded limb in my hands that I can’t stop him as he forcefully sits me on his thigh. The rigid leather beak brushes the tip of my nose as he inhales while leaning into me. “You have my blood on your hands.” Planting his foot on the floor, he lifts his knee, so I’m sitting taller, and traces a shape on the outside of my thigh. “Leave a physical mark on me this time.”

My nose skims the beak as I turn my head. The faint smell of smoke is stronger than all the other times, and it clings to his hood more than any other part of him. His pain threshold must be through the roof because he doesn’t even wince as he moves his injured arm and takes out a suturing kit from his pocket.

The thick, frosted plastic casing triggers a memory I know is real. I can even smell the disinfectant that we used, it is that embedded into my mind.