5. Lilith #2
The whole thing felt weird. Off. The food no longer looked like heaven, it looked like a pathway to hell. I didn’t overthink it. I’d grabbed the entire bag, marched straight to the kitchen, and dumped the whole thing into the trash. Pancakes, waffles, juice—all of it. Gone.
Maybe it had been wasteful, and maybe it had been a tad dramatic. But something about it made my skin crawl, and I wasn’t about to take it with open arms.
My fingers hovered over the bouquet for a moment before drifting to the card that was nestled among the sea of pink vomit. I plucked it free and flipped it open, skimming the single line scrawled across the centre of the card. I recoiled immediately, dropping it to the floor like it’d burned me.
“What?” Molly asked. “What does it say? Tell me, tell me.”
I hesitated, glancing down at the scrawled words like they might lunge at me. “It says, ‘I love you, let’s talk.’”
She blinked once, her bright pink lips pressing into a thin line as she snatched it up off the hardwood. “Gross. He’s like a magician, only the magic tricks suck and the whole act is just him trying to distract you from the fact that he’s a trash human being.”
I let out a weak laugh despite myself, rubbing my arms. “Yeah, well, the magician’s still got me on edge.”
“Hey.” Her voice softened, but the steel underneath it didn’t budge an inch. “You’re not falling for it, though. That’s what matters. He’s trying to make you doubt yourself, but you’re not letting him. That’s a win.”
I nodded faintly. “Yeah. A win. Sure.”
She stepped closer, bumping her shoulder against mine lightly. “Alright, boss. What’s the game plan? Are we letting these die out of spite? Tossing them in the dumpster? Oh! Maybe we can chuck them at passing cars?”
An idea ignited at the base of my brain, sparking to life and spreading like wildfire. “Are you doing anything tonight?”
The stars were faint, blurred by the city lights in the distance, and the slight breeze in the air sent goosebumps skittering across my skin.
Somewhere in the neighbourhood, a dog barked, and the faint hum of traffic whispered from the main road.
Over it all, Chopin’s Funeral March played softly from my Bluetooth speaker .
“Would you like to say a few final words, Lilith?”
I closed my eyes briefly, breathing it all in, before opening them and squaring my shoulders.
Alright, let’s do this.
Clearing my throat, I glanced at Molly, who gave me a nod of encouragement, wine bottle in hand.
“We gather here on this beautiful evening,” I began. “To bid goodbye to someone who has overstayed their welcome. Not these gifts, no. They didn’t ask for this life. But to the man who sent them—Clark, the human equivalent of a pop-up ad.”
Molly choked on her wine, waving me on as she coughed.
“Clark was… well, let’s call him consistent,” I continued. “Consistently manipulative. Consistently selfish. Consistently convinced he was the main character of every room he walked into. He was a man of many words, none of which ever seemed to include ‘I’m sorry ’ without a ‘but’ attached.”
“Keep going. You’re on a roll,” she whispered.
I pointed dramatically at the fire pit with my own bottle of wine.
“Tonight, we say farewell to the smell of overpriced cologne on my bedsheets. Goodbye to a man of big gestures and small emotional capacity. Adios to the walking red flag who had the confidence of a much taller man. Au revoir to gaslighting and guilt trips.” I paused, letting the music crescendo behind me, before continuing with an over-the-top sigh.
“May he rest in pieces—preferably far, far away from me.”
“But may his memory live on,” Molly raised her bottle in a toast, “as a cautionary tale to women everywhere.”
“Amen,” I said solemnly, before turning to her with a grin. “Now light it up.”
She struck a match with a flourish and tossed it into the pit.
We both stared down, waiting for a dramatic whoosh of flames. But the match fizzled out, the pile of gifts sitting there defiantly.
She frowned, pulling another match from the box. “This is why I should’ve brought lighter fluid.”
“It’s fitting,” I said. “Even in metaphorical death, he refuses to go down.”
She lit another match, and tossed it in.
Still, nothing.
“Well, this is embarrassing,” she muttered, crouching down and striking three at once.
Finally, a flicker of orange crept across the pile, catching on one of the cards before spreading to the roses. Within moments, the fire roared to life, the flames crackling and curling as the obnoxiously pink petals blackened and shrivelled.
“Well,” she said, breaking our silence. “That took longer than it should’ve, but damn if it wasn’t satisfying. ”
“Extremely,” I agreed, my chest feeling lighter as the fire charred all of the poisonous memories.
“To moving on,” I said, raising my bottle.
The last remnants of us—of him —spat in on themselves, turning to ash like they were finally as hollow as they’d always felt. The smoke rose in thin, twisting tendrils as it consumed everything—the roses, the cards, the really fucking ugly beige sweater.
And damn… if it didn’t feel good.
For so long, I’d convinced myself I had to keep accepting it. That every bouquet was an olive branch, every apology was real. That if I could just be better, be quieter, be more of what he needed—maybe he’d finally stop hurting me.
But none of it had ever been enough. And now, watching his bullshit blacken and crumble to ash, I finally understood why.
Because none of it had ever been enough. Because none of it had ever been me.
I felt none of the things I once thought I should.
No sadness. No guilt. No regret.
Just the quiet satisfaction of letting it all burn.