Alamort

50. Priya

M y hands follow the black drawstrings up to the opening of the hoodie. I lift my eyes to follow the path of my fingers as they trace up his throat, the brushstrokes of the painting creating the illusion of a smaller neck. The bones are meticulously painted white, while the gaps were filled in with a solid black color. Black contours around his jawline, making the white paint stand out.

A frown pulls at the corner of my lips, the excitement I had deflates at the second costume underneath the mask. I was hoping it was a hoax, but unfortunately, it’s not. The rest of his face is painted like a skeleton. The fake teeth drawn on cannot conceal his full lips. He uses black paint to rim his eyes, creating the illusion of empty eye sockets. I take my time tracing what would be his lips, cheekbones, to closed eyes. When he subtly leans into my touch, my heart flutters nervously in my chest.

I’d happily be his canvas for the rest of my life. If all the hurt he brought me was glossed over by whispered sweet nothings and soft touches. If I could mean something to someone, just once. A dull ache forms in my chest with the knowledge I could never be what he deserves. There is pain in wanting something I could never have. There is no happy ending for me. I can’t be fixed.

Right on cue, his eyes, devoid of emotion, spring open and bore into my soul. There is no smile, just eerie blankness. It chills me to my core.

“Your eyes have no reflection.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“I was born that way. The way you were born to display every thought across your face.” His eyes flit to every corner of my face. “Why do you cry? Are you frightened?”

“No.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“My salvation.” With my hands under the hood of his black sweatshirt, the texture of his hair is greasy as I tug on it. Rubbing my fingers together. I pull my hand out and examine the sticky black residue of hair grease. I arch my brow in question. “You wouldn’t make it easy. Would you?” I shake my head.

“You don’t like what you see, Monster?” He asks, slightly cocking his head, scanning my face. Monster. Is that what he is? I wouldn’t put it past him to deflect his issues on to someone else.

The face painting dips down beneath his black hoodie, not giving a thing away. No visible tattoos, scars, not even his skin color.

“A skeleton?”

“Or Death.”

I purse my lips. “Did you do this on purpose?”

“I knew you’d want to see me eventually, yes. People are predictable.”

Cue the red flag.

“Not giving me a thing to work with here.”

“Turn around.”

I pay no attention to him, fully immersing myself in the pleasure of tracing the dark shading on his face, adding a touch of realism to the skeleton’s features.

“What are you doing?” His voice strained. I’m making him uncomfortable? Good. It’s about time someone gave him a taste of his own medicine. What I’m doing is driven by my selfishness, regardless of whether it aligns with the truth.

“I want to remember you,” I whisper softly.

His brows furrow. “Remember me?”

I nod. Even though I can’t pick out any real characteristics about him. This is the real him. He’s not hiding in the shadows. I can physically see him, touch him, feel him. And that’s enough. It has to be.

“Why?”

“Why not?” I retort.

With a firm grip, hands swiftly twirl me around before firmly pressing me into the heart of the mirror. Clearly done with that conversation.

“Bend over.”

“No. I have questions.” They don’t matter. I’m just buying myself time with him before my night is over.

“So do I. I’ll start. Why were you crying?”

I shrug. Choosing not to answer the question is more convenient than facing self-loathing once again. That is until he tugs on my ponytails, my head still sore from Bennett.

“Ow.” His hands wrap around my hair twice before tugging again. I’m unsure how he feels about the 5th amendment, but I remain silent. Instead, I bend over and use my hands to maintain a distance between myself and the mirror. Releasing my hair, he takes a step back and kicks my legs further apart with his boot, putting a strain on my calves. I watch with bated breath as his painted hand starts at the ankle of my boots, lazily trailing upwards. I suck in a breath the second his hand contacts my bare skin. Squatting down, he flips the skirt up and positions himself at my hip level. I observe his every move as he reaches into the hoodie pocket, revealing a black sharp knife shaped like a ‘T’ with a gleaming blade.

With rapt attention, I watch him trace the cuts he made with reverence. The cold, metallic blade glides along my inner thigh, causing me to involuntarily squeeze my legs together, resulting in an unintended cut. With a huff, he delivers a sharp slap to my inner thigh, causing a shooting pain that forces a hiss to escape my lips.

“Don’t move.” He moves his head between my legs. In the mirror, his piercing gaze locks with mine, while his skilled tongue explores the sensitive area behind my knee, soothing the worst of the sting. He hums and his eyes shut, sucking until it’s numb. I’m sweating. Is it hot in here?

“Fuck, you’re so sweet.”

I gulp. What do I say? Thank you? The knife’s point goes directly below the ‘A’. The first line is horizontal. It matches the ones I make on myself. Shutting my eyes, I savor the pain caused by the kiss of the blade. The knife comes to an immediate stop, remaining motionless at its last position before making an unexpected vertical turn.

“You’re exquisite.”

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter to drown out his lies and savor the moment. “I believe we were made for each other, that I’ve spent my entire life searching for someone who completes me. One who understands me, who could accept me. I’ve walked this life alone, content. Searching for relief in others’ pain, just to find you.”

There’s nothing more I want than to believe him. Instead of responding, I choose to embrace the pain, sinking further into its depths to silence him.

“There are no words to describe the power you hold over me. Timent Veritatem,” he says, “It means ‘They fear the truth’.”

When he halts, a fiery sensation fills the void where the blade once was, causing me to spin around and gaze at him with wide-open eyes.

Shadow’s brow creases. I assume it’s because I didn’t allow him to finish his normal routine. There is still a lifelessness in his eyes. How freeing would it be to live a life where I didn’t have to feel?

Crimson blood trickles down my leg, saturating the ebony lace of my stockings. I fixate on his face to hold back tears as I lower my hand to the freshly carved letter. I gather as much of the blood on my hand as I can before smearing it onto the drawn teeth of the skull. The taste of me on my fingers makes him groan as his tongue wraps around them, a warm drop of blood sliding down his chin.

The firm grip of his hand on the back of my knee guides my leg up and over his hip. I’m not surprised when he grinds his erection into me. Memories of the shower flood my mind, and I realize what truly aroused him - not pain, but blood. I lean in and lick the warm, coppery taste of my blood from his chin, taken aback by the involuntary sigh that slips from my mouth.

It’s not entirely unpleasant, but it’s lacking the “sweetness” he claimed it had.

“I-I want you to be my first.” I wet my lips, staring at his, a fluttering in my chest takes flight. His smile is blinding in the red light. A warn feeling buzzes through my chest knowing I’ve pleased him. Even if the smile is rehearsed, he still put it on for me. I was worthy enough.

“Priya?” A soft feminine voice calls out.