Page 7 of Lilies from Hell

“This is unbearable.”

“Tell me about it,” I say with a grimace to my brother. “How do I look?” I rise, spin, displaying the black gown with its left-leg opening. The silk headband, also black, highlights my red hair.

“Are we at a funeral and didn’t know?” My brother scoffs with feigned concern before bursting out laughing.

“You are hilarious,” I retort sarcastically.

My nose wrinkles when I see the first guest walk through the large gate. I spend the first few hours forcing smiles and greeting people my parents call family friends, though I’ve never seen them before. My nerves are still there, fueling the small flame of hope that is fading.

When my brother goes to one of the many terraces, I go with him and get some air that isn’t laden with alcohol and expensive perfumes. I take out a pack of menthol Lucky Strikes and offer him one, but he shakes his head and keeps his gaze fixed ahead. I hold the cigarette between my lips and light it, looking for whatever has caught his attention. I find two men talking about something.

“Look who’s back here.” I ignore his words and narrow my eyes at the two men.

I don’t know why their silhouettes seem familiar to me, but when one of them turns around, I know. It’s the boy who has been in my dreams for years, but he’s not a boy anymore. Those milliseconds when our eyes meet are intense. My breathing hitches, my stomach flutters like when I see his photos, and my chest aches from my racing heart. It’s the same feeling I get when I fall asleep thinking of him, making me choke on cigarette smoke.

How foolish is it that I feel so attracted to someone I barely know? Very foolish. But even more foolish is that in my mind there is this idea of wanting him to feel the same way about me. His heart is probably still numb and cold, only being able to feel rage. That hasn’t changed over the years, so it’s impossible, and if it’s impossible, I want it. That’s how my silly head works, apparently.

He’s already left before I started coughing.

“If you don’t know how to smoke, don’t do it,” Jason says mockingly as he pats me on the shoulder.

Then my nostrils open up to a smell that I would recognize from miles away coming from below.

“Fuck. Are they really smoking weed without sharing? What shitty guests,” my brother grumbles with a pout on his lips. I suppress a smile at his comment, my mind still on his blue eyes.

I kept looking for him, but by the end of the afternoon, I didn’t see him again, and that left a bitter taste in my mouth. The guests leave around 11 PM. I smile as I say goodbye and then get into the car to go home. The smile from thinking that I can finally return to my room and rest.

I put on my pajamas and take off the fleur-de-lis pendant that I always carry with me. A beautiful ruby carves it, and it seems to contain a strange liquid inside that I still don’t know what it is. Its edges are gold, and it has a diamond embedded in the middle. I smile as I put it aside. I don’t remember where I found it, but it would certainly be a waste not to use it.

I tossed and turned for the first few minutes, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep and forget the hotel terrace and him. In the end, I can’t get any rest. The bed feels damp with sweat and gives off a heat that makes it unbearable for me to be there.

I sit up on the mattress and throw the sheets off me. I check the time on the digital clock on the bedside table. Only one hour passed. The sound of a door slamming shut makes me gasp in surprise. When I peek my head out the door, I see Jason dressed in black with a burgundy denim jacket and military boots.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“To the kitchen to get a glass of water. Want some?” I ignore his sarcastic tone. My desperation to distract myself with something other than him and exhaust my body so I can get some sleep prevents me from thinking before I speak.

“Can I come?”

“Okay,” he says in a defeated tone. My face must be that bad right now. “But hurry.”

Today is one of those cool summer nights, but that’s no excuse for me to put away my short clothes that show off my belly button piercing and legs.

“Let’s go,” I say as I leave the bedroom and head downstairs.

Our usual trusted escort, Lance, is waiting for us outside with a grim face. His light brown hair has grown a little longer. His prominent beard and his honey-coloured eyes perfectly complement his tanned skin. When he sees us arrive, he sighs and opens the car door.

During the ride, I hold back the urge to peek at his photos again, sharing a few messages with the person who has been my ally and confidante for as long as I can remember. I met Grace when I was living in Canada. Even after she moved to the United States, we always stayed in touch until, after moving all around Europe, my family settled in the States and we could spend more time together.

“Should I come in?” Lance asks as we are about to get out. Lance fixes his gaze on Jason through the rearview mirror. I try to signal Jason to say no by discreetly shaking my finger, but he never gets the hint and ends up agreeing. “This time I don’t want vomit on me,” he says with amusement, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

My cheeks turn red at the memory of the last time I went to a house party and ended up vomiting on Lance as we head to some kind of abandoned building. Then we go down some stairs that lead to a metal door with electronic access control. My brother approaches and presses some buttons. Electronic music booms in my ears as soon as the door opens. The different coloured lights make it slightly difficult for me to see clearly, and the powerful smell of alcohol and weed makes me grimace. Note to self: ask where we’re going before accompanying my brother anywhere at night.

I used to go to these parties often, most of which were held in marginal or moderately dangerous suburbs, but it’s been a while since I stopped going. The spot we’ve reserved is darker than the room downstairs, with red walls and black leather sofas. Next to it is a small refrigerator with drinks inside. The music is barely audible from here. His friends stop what they’re doing to glance sideways at the door, then nod at me. Some faces seem familiar. It’s not the first time I’ve spent time with them.

“What would you like to drink? We have rum, vodka…” offers Romina, an old friend. The last time I saw her was at her graduation four months ago. Her hair was completely black, but now she has blue highlights and a new silver piercing in her ear.

“Do you have anything non-alcoholic?” Romina gives me a mocking look. “I’m trying to gain some muscle here,” I say, pointing at my biceps.