A tug awakens in the pit of his stomach, a low growl that shoots rage through his system. His pupils dilate. His mouth salivates like a rabid dog’s. He knows he must let go soon, but it has been years of this torturous temptation and, finally, he is giving in. Finally pulling the trigger.

A fuck-you to Death.

(You are the one who has to live with this decision.)

Her heartbeat grows fainter and fainter beneath his palm until it eventually gives like a flickering flame on its last bit of wick.

(I hope you are capable of it.)

Thump . . . thump . . . thum—

He must let go now. He must let go now. But he drinks and he drinks and he drinks.

And Death falls silent.

PART TWO

CHAPTER XIII

Her eyes flutter open. The first thing she sees is her ceiling. Cracks slither like veins across the concrete. The scents of cement and dust are extremely present to her. She blinks a few times before sitting up on her mattress, her body not hesitating with weakness.

The second thing she sees is her daddy, standing in the corner of the room, one eyebrow raised over a cautious stare.

“Daddy?” she says.

“Yes?”

“What . . . what are you doing?” She searches him for some hint that would explain his strained presence. But his grip is bare.

“Nothing, my sweet.” He quickly breaks eye contact. “Just watching over you. To keep you safe.”

She notes his lingering awkwardness with a frown and squints down at herself, something not feeling right on her skin.

She is in a new dress. Only this dress is not white or covered in lace. It is black and plain, covering the length of her arms, the skirt stopping just before her knees. There is no design for her to memorize, no folds for her to flip through. Not even a wrinkle.

“How are you feeling?” her daddy asks, interrupting her wonder.

“I feel fine, Daddy . . . Why do you look so sad?”

She eyes the creases in his face: lines that curve in strange places, forming a look that makes her feel alone despite his presence . . . a look she faintly remembers seeing above her during intervals of consciousness.

The memory punches her in the gut. The torture, the feeling of sinking into a dark place while another part of her floats away. Life siphoned from her bones through the pores of her skin. Her stomach lurches from the phantom memory of her insides tearing her apart.

Wasn’t she drowning in her own sweat? Wasn’t she unable to breathe?

She touches her skin.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Am I dead?”

Cold shock slams into him. He jerks his head back, eyebrows furrowed but eyes sad.

“Why would you ask that, Vanilla?” he demands, but beneath the aggression his voice falters.

“I think . . .” She remembers her body losing energy until her muscles felt like stone. Until she could no longer speak, barely make a sound besides a strained cough to clear her weeping lungs. Until all she could do was lay in her daddy’s arms to be poked and prodded at while she felt herself purging.