Chapter 13
Sable
I’m dead.
I know this. I understand this. But it never fully set in until now, and I think it’s time to do something about my body. It’s just been lying in Ella’s room, dust collecting on the white sheet.
I’m unsure what precisely triggered the shift into accepting my fate; whether it was the failed summoning two nights ago, the passage of time, or the lone spider I found resting on top of my mortal chest this morning.
Grandma used to say that spiders see everything. They learn human patterns; adapt for their safety and survival. They hide away, then come when we’re gone.
I’m decaying and rotting and I’m never coming back from the dead. I’m gone. And it’s time to put myself to good use.
Our ah ma, my grandma from Mother’s side, would’ve had a second heart attack if she knew anything about my current situation. She’d probably twist it, saying I should’ve prayed to God while I was alive, or that it isn’t too late to repent.
Can’t say she didn’t warn me I’d go to Hell for my lack of holy deeds—praying before eating, attending Mass every weekend, communion and community and the whole nine yards.
She’d try to change my ways every time Ella and I would visit her and Ah Gong in Singapore, and she always made us and Mom promise we’d get closer to God whenever we were about to fly back home.
I guess this is what I get for breaking that promise.
Grandma disagreed with everything my ah ma said.
Our father’s mom wasn’t so much the religious type, but she was spiritual. Apart from my sister, she’s the only person in my family line who was cremated.
She’d tell us all the time that the worst thing we could do was end our existence in a box. We were made from the earth, and we should give back to the earth, not trap ourselves in stone to be kept on display like entertainment.
No one agreed to her demand to dig a hole in the backyard, wrap her body in some rag, then throw her in. So we settled on sprinkling her ashes around the forest surrounding the manor. It was Ella who did it. There was no way it would’ve been me. They had a special bond.
I still loved Grandma though—she was the only true mother figure I had.
Sure, she was always yelling at me for being forgetful, or not listening, or talking back, but she’d always let me have a single treat from the cookie jar afterward.
She always said it wasn’t a reward but a reminder that, at the end of the day, we were still family, and we’d never turn our backs on one another.
As a child, hearing that would tear me apart.
Because how could Grandma think that while the woman who birthed me demanded I eat in a different room than them.
Then I’d come running back and see Grandma and Ella gardening, smiling, and laughing, showing each other the different things that had grown while I was locked away in my bedroom.
Grandma and I never had anything to bond over. I was always desperate for that one thing that would make us smile and laugh like she did with my sister.
I’ve lost my chance to find it, but I’ll finally have something she’d relate to. I’ll be in a hole in the earth, covered in rags.
I stare at my milky, unseeing eyes and my mouth, frozen in an eternal scream. My skin is greener, with shades of brown, and rounded with bloat.
Everyone always told me I had my mother’s eyes. I’ve always disagreed until today. I see it now. It’s there in the emptiness, that hollow nothing. I suppose I am my mother’s daughter, bitter and deceitful. I’m glad Ella doesn’t look like her.
Taking a deep breath through my mouth, I lower the white cloth back over my face and take my time folding the sheet around my corpse until I’m swaddled like a baby. The only thing I feel when the fabric slips through my hand is frustration. But when I can’t touch my own body?
A tremor works through me as I gaze down at the only real evidence I ever existed. I entered this world with purpose and left inconsequential. Everyone saw it coming, but it stings all the same.
No one will miss me. This isn’t a feeling or a biased opinion. This is a fact. No one is going to miss me now that I’m gone.
No one will mourn my death but me.
Mom and Dad won’t.
Megan might’ve, but truthfully, she and I both know I died the night Ella did. This was inevitable. I would never have taken the steps to end it, but I wouldn’t have stopped nature from taking its course.
I work my jaw and mentally count down from ten to give myself what I need to keep going. I can’t even utter the words, “Rest in peace,” because I know fate is never going to be kind enough to let that happen.
But Ella deserves to have it, even if I don’t.
I bend down to grab my ankles, only for my hand to slip right through my own body. Gritting my teeth, I try again. This time, my fingers wrap around a solid surface. My grip is fickle at best, but I know I need to do this.
I shut my eyes and give myself another three seconds before pulling. This is what my life has become: dragging my own corpse by the feet through the remains of my family home.
I only manage a couple of feet before my corporeal legs thump onto the floor, right through my hands.
“Fuck,” I hiss, leaning over and attempting to grab them again.
I go through on the first try. Then the second, third, fourth, and fifth, but finally, I make it on the sixth.
But another couple of steps later, the loud bang of my heel hitting the wooden floor echoes through the hallway.
Why can’t I touch my own fucking body? How is this hard? I picked up that goddamn grimoire fine.
My eyes heat. I lean forward to snatch my ankles back up, and nothing. My corpse feels like fucking air beneath my fingertips, like I never existed. Snarling, I manage to grab my legs, only to lose my grip again seconds later.
“Stupid fucking—” I slam my hand over my mouth and inhale deeply before I start kicking my rotten corpse.
God, I’m so pathetic. What is wrong with me? This is a simple task, and I still have a mile to go before I reach my final resting spot.
What was I thinking? I was never going to be able to bury my body.
Did I seriously think I’d be able to dig myself a grave? This past week has been one big joke, and I’m so tired of it all. I want a win. Just one. Why can’t I have this one fucking thing? Is that too much to ask for? Am I too awful a person to have this?
“What are you doing?”
I jolt at the sound of Lynx’s voice and bend back over to grab the ankles again. How much of that did he see?
“Not right now,” I huff, avoiding his gaze so he doesn’t see how my eyes have reddened.
Except my hands go right through, and I feel the first tear gather on my lashes.
“It’s a simple question.”
I ignore him. My teeth grind as I try again. No bite.
“Look, you can come fucking annoy me later, alright? You’ve got free rein. Just give me ten fucking minutes—what are you doing?” My corpse is pulled from my fingers into Lynx’s arms. “Put her down.”
The demon doesn’t so much as look at me. He walks in the direction of the stairs, holding me bridal style against his chest with ease that I never had.
“Where?”
I stumble to catch up. “Right there.” I point to the floor in front of us. At least that’s a few feet I didn’t need to manage myself.
“Where are you burying your body?” He finally looks at me, but he doesn’t stop moving forward.
He’s… Something thick and not wholly unpleasant lodges in my throat. I regard his profile, matching his pace. He’s really going to help me? From the hard set of his jaw, down to his sure steps, nothing about the way he walks indicates this might be a game or a means to enact vengeance.
For the first time since I’ve met him, he almost looks human. It’s the way the corners of his eyes have softened, like this is something sacred. That beneath all the blood and venom, he has morals.
I could almost believe we’re two acquaintances, not that I’m helping him hide my own body.
“There’s a willow tree to the east of the property. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk.”
Lynx nods, letting me lead us down the stairs, which creak and groan beneath his weight. He has to skip the steps where the wood has splintered or has been damaged to the point of disrepair.
When I first came here over a week ago, there were food packets, empty takeout containers, beer cans, and glass bottles littered all around the manor, but as the days go by, there’s less and less trash. In the same way, the bins out back are getting fuller and fuller.
I rush ahead once we reach the bottom of the grand staircase and open the door, leaving behind no mark on the dirty wooden floors. The door quietly glides open, and all I can do is stare at the hinges that most definitely weren’t oiled the night I came here.
If Lynx notices my shock, he says nothing. I glance at him as he continues with his task, trying to make sense of his unreadable expression. He’s making this slice of hell his own.
A warm, painful, fluttery sensation tingles in my chest when I watch him walk down the moss-covered steps onto the pavement, carrying my body in a way that’s so against everything I’ve come to know about him.
He moves gently, careful not to jostle my stiff body, or hit the overgrown bushes on either side of the path.
I’ve never been held like that before. I’ve never been treated with that kind of gentleness or like I’m something important that shouldn’t be damaged. And the first time I am, it’s as a corpse, too dead to know what it feels like.
It’s a sick joke.
He doesn’t rush toward the trees, or huff and complain.
His pace isn’t leisurely, and his posture isn’t irritated.
It’s the type of movement I’d expect from a man showing respect to the dead he’s about to bury.
Not like I’m his murder victim or prison warden.
Not like he loathes me and sees this as nothing more than a tedious project to pass the time.
I don’t recognize him.