Page 72 of Alamort

With my eyes closed, I stand on my tippy toes to pull it over his head, paying attention to the warmth of his skin when my fingers brush against it before I let it go, dropping it to the carpet with a light thud before resting my hands on his chest above his heart.

Thump thump.

How isn’t his heart beating out of his chest like mine is? What if I know him? What if revealing his identity to me means he’ll tell everyone what we do? What I allow him to do to me.

Thump thump.

Does it matter?

Steeling myself to be disappointed, I stand a little taller knowing it won’t matter after tonight. And open my eyes.

My 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 somethingI 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?”

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