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35

DELILAH

W eighted footsteps move through the house as I remain curled up at the table. My tears have soaked into the neckline of my hoodie and I’m close to hyperventilating as I try to dry my face. I don’t want to worry Asher or have him be forced to tell me everything I’m misremembering.

I don’t need to look to know who it is with the tobacco scent in the air. Ghost carefully places his arms under my knees and at my back before he lifts me out of my seat.

I don’t break down how I want to. Anger replaces it all and I push against his chest as I throw my weight backwards, uncaring if I end up injuring myself.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” I scream, jumping backwards to create much-needed distance between us.

He’s only wearing the ski mask, but the eye holes are covered with mesh, everything else is black, and he keeps his hood up. His lips are darker at the edges, and I hate him. I hate him for not showing his face and helping everyone see me as crazy. I hate myself the most and I steel my spine as I enforce a boundary I should have had from the beginning.

“I am married. Do not touch me. You can tell me what you know or get the fuck out.”

He doesn’t step forward and his lips are in a flat line as he slowly turns his head and looks at the flowers in the middle of the table. Then his gaze drops to the tear-stained card. Tilting his head again, he reads the card and nods once.

As much as I know I’m doing the right thing, there’s an equal force telling me the opposite, a siren blaring that everything I need is standing in front of me. Not for life or love, solely for answers. But all he does is raise more questions as he straightens and speaks low in his throat.

“Do you trust him?”

I nod because I can’t lie with as much conviction as the gesture.

“Have you always trusted him?”

Another nod that I know is an outright lie.

Ghost’s mask protrudes around his jaw, and he hooks his first two fingers over the neckline of his hoodie as he takes a step forward. The nervous tic is familiar, and I look off to the side, trying to find where I can place it. My brows slowly draw together as I work through all the different memories from my mind and the ones I’ve been told about. There was someone who always did that, but I don’t know who or when. I just know that gesture, of some faceless, nameless person running two fingers around their collar.

Gloved fingers gently trace my jaw, and my face is tipped up to meet the ski mask. I just blink and watch his lips as he asks, “Are you choosing him, koukla mou?”

He speaks softly and with care, a dichotomy to the previous personalities he’s shown me, but I’m not making a choice now. I’m just sticking with one I don’t remember making.

“I married Asher, and this isn’t right,” I say, sounding weak to my own ears.

“Okay.” He smiles.

There’s no time for me to allow the words to sink in, to decide whether I’m happy or disappointed because his hand slips from my jaw. He wraps both hands around my neck and just holds me in place. Without cutting off my air, he leans forward and speaks against my lips.

“You are fucking mine. There is no other choice for you. If you touch him again, I’ll kill him. If you allow him to touch you, I’ll make you watch.”

The dressing on his forearm crinkles beneath his sleeve and I stare at it as I ask, “How did you get hurt?”

His fingers flex around my neck and he lets out a harsh breath. “Because I was focused on you.”

There’s a dull click and I panic, thinking it’s the door. I try to push him off me, but there are no steps and I look up to see how hard he’s clenching his jaw. The tension extends beyond his mask and his voice is stilted as though he’s fighting himself not to give me the warning.

“Don’t trust him.”

He lets me go, turns with his shoulders more tense, and his voice is strange. It’s deeper and weighted as he lifts a rose out of the arrangement.

“Will you let him play with what’s mine, koukla mou?”

The threat of what he’ll do isn’t real. It’s just a way for him to control my actions and I press against his insecurity.

“I’m his before I would ever be yours.”

The long green stem is easily plucked from the floral foam, and he forms a claw with his fingers to hold the large bud as he turns back to me and tuts. “No thorns.”

The all black outfit against the soft cream petals softens the image of Ghost walking towards me. He delicately holds the rose and he’s careful not to crush the petal as he uses two fingers to hold the stem and unwraps his fingers from the flower. I can’t think of a way he can turn it into a weapon, but he holds it up between our faces and slowly swirls it.

“This is your marriage,” he muses. “From the outside it’s perfect, it’s beautiful and romantic.” My throat turns dry as he looks past the rose to me. “But on the inside, it’s harboring something terrifying.”

He stares at me as he plucks each petal. The oils slick the pads of his latex-covered fingers before he carelessly drops them on the floor. He works in order from the outside of the rose and deconstructs each layer of the large flower until only the ugly center is left covered by two loosely wrapped petals. They lay on top of the other and he uses the tip of his forefinger to lift one of the petals, revealing a beetle.

“That,” he pushes the bald rose closer to me, “is what your marriage really is.”

He drops the stem and stretches to the side to take another. I just stare at the floor to make sure the bug stays where the fuck it is. I don’t need beetles to add to the shit in my life. I already have one pest, who is currently sharing his gardening knowledge for some fucking reason.

“You should audition for a play,” I say. He looks at me instead of the rose and I add, “All your theatrics might be useful there. But you might have to show the world your ugly ass face.”

The insult doesn’t make him bristle. He laughs in my face. The force of it shakes his chest and condescension drips from what should be a joyous sound. It slows as he shakes his head and coos, “Oh, koukla mou, you’ve seen my face and every mask I have. You’ve never complained.” He sighs and gestures to the flower arrangement. “But that was before you let the disease back into your life.”

“What do you mean?” I step forward despite his clear mental issues when he doesn’t answer me, and he takes a matte black lighter from his pocket. The cap clicks as he flicks it, then runs his thumb against the grinding wheel. Butane taints the air as the spark licks the wick and the flame ignites in a bulbous blob before tapering off at the top.

“Do you know the best way to get rid of the disease?” he asks while still ignoring my question.

“You said back in my life, what does that mean?”

We’re having different conversations, and he continues his as he slowly brings the flame to the rose head.

“You burn it,” he says softly, and the petals begin to wilt as he twirls the stem between his thumb and forefinger. The water it has managed to soak up prevents it from being engulfed in flames and I watch the full, cream petals die. The edges curl over as though they’re trying to protect themselves, but the freak continues moving it around the flame until it’s destroyed.

He looks up and opens his fingers with the lighter still aflame in the other hand. The stem hits the floor between our feet, and I watch the flame dance to prevent my chin from dropping. His lips settle into a smirk as he says, “But you know all about fires, don’t you, koukla mou?”

His boot crushes the already destroyed flowers as he takes a step forward and brings the lighter to my face. The flame dances with the movement and I stretch my neck back as I stare at the mesh eyeholes.

“Answer me,” I demand.

The heat ghosts over my jawline but it doesn’t touch. The burning butane makes me grimace and he caps the lighter as he sighs. The top is warm and warps his glove as he holds it in his palm. I don’t know why I’m staring at it, but I can’t look away as the latex melts in holes around the top of the lighter cap and he closes his fingers around it.

My head snaps up as he says, “You left him once, do it again.” He takes another step closer and holds my chin with his knuckles and thumb. His whisper is slow, and he traces my bottom lip. “Ask me to kiss you again.”

Shaking my head, I force my mouth to remain closed. It’s not the worst thing I’ve done considering I’ve given my attention to someone outside of my marriage before he ever touched me.

He takes another step forward and holds my hip. The warmed metal of the lighter casing is comforting against my skin as he says, “Ask. I’ll give it to you this time.”

I pull my head back from his hand and he doesn’t attempt to force me, as I lie, “I don’t know you and I never did. You’re not real, we were never anything, and if you don’t leave, I’ll go to the police.”

Ghost leans forward and softly kisses the highest point of my cheek. My skin warms with false nostalgia, and he whispers, “Nice try, koukla mou. We’re not done playing yet.”

He steps back and walks out through the glass doors in the kitchen. His eyes remain on me as he takes the steps down and I tilt my body, walking backwards to sit on the chair without looking away from him. All the answers are leaving and it’s the right thing to do, but I want someone to give me the truth.

I’d rather be hurt with the truth than comforted by lies. Either way, I’ll be left with a mess like I am now. At least one offers clarity.

The only person who has been harsh enough to give me the truth is my mother. My life has gone to shit to such an extent that I actually wish I had that toxic bitch in it. It’s that thought that controls my hand and I stare into the trees as I take out my phone and dial my childhood phone number that my parents always paid to move with them.

The line trills and I hope that habit hasn’t changed. My knee rocks with each repetition and I’m about to end the call when a soft feminine voice answers, “Good afternoon, Leroux residence.”

My voice lowers at finally recognizing someone. “Anna? Do you still work for my parents?”

I thought the housekeeper would have fucked off by now. She’s a saint for spending a minute around their demands, never mind the forty years of service she’s approaching.

Her voice is still kind as she asks, “Miss Delilah, is that you?”

I smile and bring my knees up to my chest with my shoulder pressed against the chair back.

“Yeah, is my mom there?”

“Don’t come back,” she whispers and slams the phone down. The receiver hits the metallic holder and I’d know the sound anywhere with my parents treating the rotary phone like it was made of gold.

I once saw my mom take Anna’s measurements because she thought she was stealing food. She would do it every day and compare them while making her bitchy comments about her figure, Anna didn’t even stop her or smack her in the face like she deserved. She held her arms up and lifted her hair so my mom could take an accurate measurement of her neck. But she put the fucking phone down on me .