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She grabs at the outside of her cheeks and Lyr’s eyes well with tears. Longing to lap them up once they descend, I want to taste her sorrow; to be in it with her.

It also breaks my heart to see my Strawberry Girl this way. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. “You’re taking up space in the In-Between…”

She cuts me off.

“What do you mean, the In-Between? I—I don’t understand.” She stammers.

Time stands still, and I feel like I’m suffocating for us both. This is the part I’m not good at. Searching her eyes, I know she can see the pity in mine.

“They can sense your presence, see your disruptions through the Veil…”

“Attie?” she cries.

All I want to do is lick her tears and suck her blubbering lip into my mouth, but I’m going to break her heart instead.

“You died, Lyr. This is The In-Between.”

CHAPTER 9

LYRIC

Everything stops. A ringing in my ears takes over my hearing, and my vision blurs. My brain rifles through the past several weeks as the pieces of the puzzle click into place. I can eat, but I don’t want to. My taste buds feel broken, and my stomach feels nonexistent. I can’t feel anything, whether it be touch or temperature. I sleep purely out of boredom because, God knows, I’m not actually tired and haven’t been in weeks. Long-term COVID effects crossed my mind. But dead? That wasn’t on this year’s bingo card.

Much love to the “big man” upstairs for the heads-up.

I can’t even say He threw a wrench in my plans for my life, because let’s be real, I didn’t have any. Not while I was with Jake. If anything, I manifested this for myself.

I think back to when I could’ve possibly died and eventually settle on my last night with him. I recall the one-star motel, the smelly old Bible, and the warm water.

Warm water.

My jaw drops in horror, and my bottom lip quakes with disbelief.

Blood.

It wasn’t water. It was blood.

Resentment and rage spark a flame inside me, and I know it won’t be long before I’m engulfed in the carnage of the aftermath.

I drop to the sand, landing on tightly wound kneecaps, and I scream. Until my throat is dry and my voice gives out, I scream. I’m so lost in my grief that I don’t notice that I’m being held by Attie. His rough and scratchy beard rests on the top of my petite head, while his massive arms wrap around my chest and shoulders. His brawny hands clasp around my soft, curvy midsection, and I sigh a breath of contentment at the sight.

“I’ve got you.” He repeats in my ear, rocking us from side to side.

I don’t know how long he holds me for, and I’m nowhere near regulated enough to care.

My name is Lyric Lapis. I'm twenty-four years old, and I’m dead. No more feeling the breeze on my skin during warm summer days. A meal of a well-done steak and crispy diced potatoes smothered in real butter and a thick and tangy sour cream will no longer ignite the taste buds in my salivating mouth. Never again will I catch the scent of another vibrant flower, let alone my favorite.

I weep, acknowledging that I’ll be the one creating havoc. Eliciting smells of sulfur instead of perfume will produce grimacing expressions shrouded in trepidation. Children will wail in and at my presence. My chest aches at the notion.

Jake took everything from me, including my life. And I let him.

Attie places his hands on my elbows and gently helps me to my feet. I sniffle and rub at my eyes, something I continue to do out of habit. I assess my body, looking for indentations on my sore and pudgy knees and when I find nothing still, I don’t worry about brushing myself off. Attie escorts me to the park bench beneath the willow tree and by the old swing set. He makes sure I’ve taken a seat before he also sits down.

“Lyr, I—,” Attie begins, and I promptly interject.

“Don’t.” I murmur.

Dropping my head, my curly locks fall in front of my face, I inquire, “How long have you known? Ya know…”