Page 2

TWO

AMETHYST

I see Death, and I don’t mean the man I just murdered.

Adrenaline surges through my trembling fingertips, making it a bitch to claw out of this open grave. I’ve also tumbled down more times than Jack and Jill because the shoes I’m wearing won’t grip the loose soil.

My hands won’t stop trembling. Every time a worm slithers under my fingers, I flinch, and the breeze swirling through my sweat-soaked curls gives me a chill.

I reach the top and pull myself out, only to lock gazes with a six-and-a-half-foot tall wraith with glowing white eyes. Alarm punches my heart. The only thing worse than seeing the grim specter of death is him alerting the night shift workers of where I buried the corpse.

The moon vanishes behind clouds, plunging the cemetery into gloom. I scramble to my feet and hurry through the tombstones, finding my way back to the path.

Death stays close, his shadow swallowing the light. The only thing missing is a scythe.

This is… unusual. I haven’t hallucinated in over a year, and when I did, I only saw the men I’d personally killed. But now, Death dogs my steps and I have no idea why.

Shuddering, I quicken my pace .

An hour ago, an online troll pushed his way into my house. His name was JakeRake69, and he wanted to snuff out my life. I fought back, but he was too big, too strong, and too determined to choke me on my kitchen floor.

As the edges of my vision turned black, a dark figure appeared in the doorway, signaling my imminent demise.

That was the jolt of adrenaline I needed for my fingers to find a fallen knife and plunge it into Jake’s neck.

I thought saving my life would exorcize the apparition, but I only piqued his interest. Death trailed after me as I dragged Jake’s corpse down my backyard and through the thicket of trees that separate my home from the cemetery.

After hiding the body in an open grave, I thought I’d be free of the specter, but I was wrong. He waited for me at the edge of the burial ground with his head cocked to the side like an owl’s.

So that’s how I find myself trudging back home, stalked by the Angel of Death. Shivers seize my skeleton, and every fine hair on the back of my neck stands on end, but the sensation is nothing compared to being covered in dirt.

Dirt encrusts my fingernails and covers every inch of my skin. Dirt gathers beneath my eyelids and lines my nostrils. It wriggles through my ear canals and across my scalp. I want to shake it off and scream, but I don’t need to attract any more of that thing’s attention.

Ignoring him, I continue through the Douglas Firs that border my house. I’m so exhausted from fighting off a brute and digging his grave barehanded that my knuckles practically drag on the ground. Who would have thought self-defense could be so grueling?

As soon as I step out of the evergreens and into my narrow backyard, the weight of dragging and burying the man I killed lifts off my shoulders only to settle in my gut. I stare down the paved yard through my kitchen window to find flames flickering on the gas stove.

I don’t remember turning it on.

My home is a narrow, two-story townhouse wedged between a pair of larger buildings and has been my home for six years, ever since Mom and Dad marched me off my college campus in my first semester.

I’m sure Mom is sick of dealing with my mental issues and feels more comfortable with me on the other side of town. Dad says I should be more understanding because of what happened in my past, but I don’t have a single memory of anything that took place before the age of ten.

But I digress.

Because of me, a man is dead, and now I’m being shadowed by a specter. Worst of all, no amount of self-reflection or pity will clean up Jake’s blood. I step through the back door and into the kitchen, where my online troll tackled me to the floor and nearly ended out my life.

If it hadn’t been for that fallen knife…

Chills race across my skin as I turn on the light, finding blood all over the black-and-white tiles. It’s also probably spattered over the kitchen cabinets, but they’re a deep ebony wood that hides stains. With a sigh, I turn off the stove and trudge to the linen closet where I keep my supplies and grab a pack of paper towels.

Thank goodness I buy in bulk.

I lay them on the floor, taking advantage of their absorbency. Next, I open every sanitary pad in my home, unwrap each tampon so they can soak up the rest. After exhausting a three-month supply of period products, I move on to the toilet paper.

After wiping down the cabinets, I double bag the absorbent materials and hide them in the cupboard under the stairs. Next is a mop and bucket with copious amounts of bleach. This cleaning job won’t be enough to fool a forensic team, but I make a mental note to purchase hydrogen peroxide. One of the benefits of dating a killer is knowing how to clean up a crime scene.

Xero. Xero Greaves spent his last day on death row alone and miserable because of me and my cowardice.

Grief hits me like a tsunami, making my legs buckle. My knees hit the wet tiles, and I gasp out a sob. Pain spreads across my heart, overshadowing the rawness around my throat.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper through tears.

His execution would have been hours ago. I swore to keep him company as he fried on the electric chair, but I left the only man who ever showed me love to die alone. That was unforgivable enough, but I also missed the wedding we were supposed to have in the prison chaplain, followed by three hours of conjugal bliss.

Xero died among enemies today because I couldn’t put aside my trauma. That guilt will plague me until I die.

Swallowing hard, I pick myself up off the floor. Movement through the window turns my attention to the unlit garden, where I swear I see a dark figure standing among the trees.

“Call Dr. Saint,” I mutter under my breath, wishing Xero hadn’t convinced me to stop taking my meds.

Instead of the prescription-induced haze that’s been my life since leaving college, my experiences now are immersed in agonizing clarity.

An hour later, after taking the longest shower, I apply enough concealer to hide the finger marks around my neck. Then it’s the usual process of applying makeup without looking myself in the eye.

When I said I hadn’t hallucinated in over a year, I was referring to people or objects outside the mirror. That’s the domain of the monster who wears my face. My spectrophobia means I can’t escape her—not in videos, photos, or even puddles.

It’s been like this forever. A doppelg?nger haunting me through every reflective surface. I tried describing her to Dr. Saint, but I can’t articulate why she’s different from me. She’s a being who mimics me to perfection, except she’s evil.

It’s strange because I spend ages looking in the mirror when I’m taming my unruly curls or bleaching the left side of my hair platinum blonde. If I close one eye, I can even bleach the right brow to match. Focusing on one element of my face is fine–I just can’t see both eyes or the whole thing in its entirety.

Turning my attention away from the mirror, I wear the black leather corset dress Xero bought me, along with black stockings decorated with silver snakes. Long gloves hide the scratches on my arms, and a thick choker draws the attention away from my bruised throat.

After adding the chunky silver crucifix Xero sent me for an early birthday present, I walk to the green room. It was originally a large pantry and utility space, but Mom let me move everything out and cover the walls in chroma key paint. That’s where I shoot the podcast and the social media clips that pay my living expenses until I can get a publishing deal.

My heart pounds so hard that I feel its vibrations between my legs. It’s a reaction that’s plagued me since my first killing, where the release of adrenaline increases the blood flow to my genitals. Dr. Saint called it violence-induced arousal and explained that it was a trauma response.

I looked it up online, and it doesn’t exist. Dr. Saint probably made it up so I wouldn’t feel like such a freak. I’m not a sadist. That would imply that I seek pleasure from causing harm. I really don’t.

But it isn’t normal. Nothing about me is normal. A normal woman wouldn’t become infatuated with the mugshot of a killer. A normal woman also wouldn’t send said killer letters every other day, accept his gifts, or his proposal of marriage.

A normal woman also wouldn’t have left the love of her life at the altar, then get aroused after stabbing another man to death in her kitchen. I push forward through the exhaustion, through the trauma, through the disorientation and pain for Xero. He would want me to give his fan club some kind of closure.

After setting up the ring lights, I log into my account, OfficialXerofan club, select a background for the green screen, then go live.

“Good evening, Xero Maniacs,” I croak, my voice hoarse. “It’s your president here with an update from the man himself.”

Fingers trembling, I clutch Xero’s last letter. I stare so hard at his angular handwriting that my eyes blur with tears. I’ll never hear from him again. I’ll never get that excited flutter every time I visit the mailbox, anticipating one of his letters. I’ll never get an early-morning phone call from the exercise yard, never get another text or clandestine photo or video, never feel that soul-deep connection with another human being.

Because he’s dead.

There’s a reason I fell in love with a killer. His soul is as tainted as mine. The man I murdered today wasn’t my first. And with the way Mom and Dad keep me at arm’s length, I wonder if my suppressed memories contain more deaths.

I blink, loosening two fat tears that roll down my cheeks. My phone chimes, bringing me out of my thoughts. I stare at the screen to find a slew of messages on the live chat, demanding Xero’s final words.

“Right.” I clear my throat. “Sorry… Here’s what he wrote.”

I try not to cry as I read and force my voice not to waver, not wanting to ruin Xero’s beautiful message with a breakdown. After the last word, I pause, letting every Xeromaniac soak in the finality of his ending. A quick check at the corner of the screen tells me that I already have a thousand viewers who have sent nearly a hundred gifts. There’s also a line of people wanting to chat.

Most nights, I stay for at least an hour, making sure as many people as possible get to hear me read out Xero’s letters. Tonight, all I want to do is curl up in a ball and grieve. Grieve for Xero, who I jilted and left to face the executioner alone. Grieve for myself, who missed the chance to say goodbye. Most of all, I want to grieve for what we lost.

Without our sacred union, we might never find each other in the next life. Our bond was so profound, yet we haven’t even touched, let alone met in person. Xero was on death row, which gave him barely enough time each day to walk the grounds to the cell phone jammer’s dead zone where he would call me and forward me photos and videos.

Despite all the barriers to our love, I managed to fall for the man behind the voice and the honeyed words. Now, I don’t know how I’ll cope without hearing from him every day. My throat closes, and my sinuses burn with grief.

Fuck it. I’m going to bed.

Turning off the live, I navigate to the screen that allows me to create a regular video to post on my page. I set up a different green screen, read out the excerpt of Xero’s final letter, click send, and walk upstairs with a bottle of vodka.

My bedroom is like the rest of the house’s decor: gothic. While only the panel of wall behind the bed is painted black, the white walls are covered in macabre artwork. Pictures of Xero hang among canvases that feature skeletons, creepy dolls, scenes of torture, and all manner of Shinigami. After tonight, I’m beginning to understand my love for Japanese death gods.

I don’t bother to shower before bed, since I already scrubbed my skin raw. Not a single trace of Jake remains on my body, save for the bruises. Maybe I should have taken his online threats seriously, but I thought my security measures were foolproof.

After undressing, I wash down double the recommended dose of Temazepam with several swigs of vodka and slip between the black silk sheets. My muscles still ache from dragging a full-grown man into the cemetery and digging his shallow grave, and I’m desperate for sleep.

My eyelids become heavy, and slumber pulls me under in minutes. Before my eyes fully close, I swear I see the reaper hovering in my doorway. His cold breath makes the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He drifts closer, his skeletal fingers reaching out to caress my cheek. I’m too drowsy, too sedated to flinch, even as his icy touch makes my skin erupt in goosebumps.

I dream of Xero, all alone in a desolate afterlife, his eyes filled with hurt and anger over my betrayal. I dream of JakeRake69, burning in the fires of Hell. Flames engulf him, reducing his flesh to cinders, only for it to regenerate. His screams ring through my ears with the sweet melody of vengeance. I should revel in seeing my attacker get his comeuppance, but I can’t look away from Xero’s accusing glare.

Hours later, the first rays of sunlight stream through my eyelids, pulling me out of sleep, but my skin tingles with static electricity. Sensation gathers low in my belly and the pulse between my legs pounds in sync with my frantic heartbeat.

“Fuck,” I croak, my throat still hoarse.

Whatever dream I had must have been erotic, because my clit has never felt so swollen. I reach down between my legs and rub my aching bundle of nerves. My other hand twitches toward the dildo Xero commissioned from a mold of his erection, but I close my fingers into a fist.

I am no longer worthy of using him to get off.

Not after such a devastating betrayal .

So, let’s make do with my fingers and make this quick.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I focus on the sensations, but my mind’s eye keeps dredging up his beautiful face. Strong brow, framed with platinum hair and irises glowing brighter than blue icebergs.

It’s his mugshot that went viral, the one where he wears a septum piercing along with a pair of snakebites on his perfectly plump bottom lip. A dusting of stubble covers his square jaw, accentuating the sharp angles of his face. Utter perfection. My mind’s eye travels down his thick neck to muscular shoulders and a sculpted chest. His abs are chiseled with a dusting of blond hair leading to?—

“Xero,” I whisper as I climax.

A thud hits the closet. I leap out of bed, my heart pounding loud enough to rouse the dead. Crossing the room in a few steps, I grab the handle and yank open the door.

Something large, something stiff, something heavy and cold falls into my arms. I stagger back with a shriek, only for it to tumble onto the floor with a loud crash.

It’s a body.

But not just any corpse.

Jake stares up at me through sightless eyes, his lips parted with shock. Black blood encrusts the stab wound in his neck, revealing a trail of fluid down to his bare chest.

Three things hit me at once.

One. The corpse I buried last night has found its way back into my home.

Two. I really need to take my meds.

Three. I’ve already forgotten the third.