Page 106 of Lilies from Hell

“My father says he doesn’t trust you…”

“Do you trust me?” His voice is almost a whisper, interrupting what I was about to say.

“Yes. You know I do,” I reply, nodding my head, his harsh features now seeming to relax.

“Then that’s enough for me. What your parents think of me shouldn’t matter to you. After all, you’re the only one who really knows me.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure. I feel like I don’t know enough about you and I want to know absolutely everything.” He smiles and wraps his arms around me as I pull myself closer to his chest.

“What do you want to know?” The image of those paintings and photos I saw in his house comes to mind, and I prepare to eliminate that doubt in the most subtle way possible.

“Where is your mother?”

“She died a long time ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I… didn’t know,” I murmur, stumbling over my words.

“Don’t worry, I don’t feel anything anymore. I don’t think I ever did. All my feelings stayed with you. I wasn’t lying when I said I gave you everything I had.”

I don’t know if his words are true and I really shouldn’t worry, but I feel a strong urge to comfort him and make him feel everything will be okay. To reveal to him that he’s beginning to take over every part of my being too.

I press our bare chests together and caress his back, frowning when my fingertips touch a rough surface. A scar that seems to be quite long, and there appear to be more next to it. I slowly pull away with a lump tightening my throat, hiding my shock with a smile I hope he wouldn’t see through.

“I have another question.”

I take the book he gave me a while ago, the one hiding poems and letters inside, and place it in front of us. Hoping that by changing the subject I can banish the horrible scenarios plaguing my mind of his younger self being mistreated by someone.

“What about it?” He asks. The few rays of light coming through the window highlight the sparkle in his eyes. There is no jewel more precious than his eyes. Not even the one in his perfect tongue.

“Where did you get it?”

“From my bookshelf.”

“You know what I mean. Who’s the author? He doesn’t seem to be very well known.” I retort, lifting an eyebrow. I already know who it is, I just want to hear it from his own lips and tell me why he didn’t show them before.

The books have nothing but poems, letters and numbers. Numbers in the new chapters, on a new page that welcome a new poem or letter. I soon discovered that the numbers at the beginning of the chapters represent different days. One text per day. The poems are not the typical kind that give you butterflies in your stomach. The verses are sinister, they talk about love from points of view that no one would dare to even think about. They blur the line between obsession and love, but to me they are beautiful. I found myself on the verge of tears more than once though.

Reading his pain when I was not with him, his anger when he had to leave to some kind of academy he didn’t want to and the stages of our relationship was overwhelming and frustrating at the same time. I hated myself for not being able to remember and for forgetting about us. I stop when I reach the page/day 2556. After that one his mind seemed to have gone into a wild frenzy, the pages were stained with dry tears and blood, despair leaking into the words, and it was then when it hit me. That’s when my accident happened, but I still couldn’t sort everything out.

“No, it’s not.”

“Alek,” I protest with a pout.

“It’s mine.”

“Do you write?” I ask, my confusion reflected in my voice. He nods very slowly. “And do you have more? I’d like to read them.”

“Yes, but I would have to translate them, lyubov’.”

“What do you mean by translating them?”

“I write them in Russian. It sounds better to me,” he explains, caressing my hand. He seems unable to keep his hands off me, even when we are this close, and I love that. It makes me feel like he really needs me as much as I needed him.

“Then you’ll have to teach me Russian someday.” He raises both eyebrows with an amused expression. “That way I’ll be able to read everything you’ve written.” I say, remembering that notebook full of things I found on his desk. Although, well, that’s what the internet is for.

“It’s getting late,” he says, pushing our bodies onto the bed and then covering us with the sheets.

“Will you read me a chapter?” I murmur against his chest with my eyes closed.