I sit on my bed, staring at the blank white walls that I’d torn posters down from weeks ago, waiting to see if he’ll come tonight. My room seems cold and I want to close the window but don’t seem to have the energy to do so. I’m tired, my eyelids are drooping and my head heavy, and I want to drift to sleep, but that only makes it worse when he comes, if he comes. There’s a light knock at the door and mother opens it, peering in concerned as always.
    “Hey honey, something wrong?”
    I shake my head slowly. “No.”
    “You’re sure? I just finished a batch of cookies if you want one.”
    “No thanks.” I hardly look at her.
    “They’re oatmeal raisin.”
    I turn to look at her. “No, mom, I don’t want one right now.” I feel a pang of yearning. I love oatmeal raisin cookies, loved, more like because these days food is a chore, something else to repulse me.
    “Later?”
    “Sure.”
    Mom sighs. “I was just checking in to ask you what you wanted to do for your birthday.”
    I shudder without meaning to. “I don’t know.”
    “Nothing you’d like to do?”
    “I can’t think of anything.”
    “Shall I plan it, then?”
    “Sure.”
    “Cake and friends be good?”
    “Whatever, Mom.” She looks about ready to cry. I want to comfort her but I hardly know how. I hate how he hurts my family more than me. Mom and Dad simply thought I was being a depressed teen and very subtly (so they thought) looked to see if my arms were cut up. I give her a lopsided smile.
    She looks a little happier. “You want a red velvet cake?”
    Another past favorite. “Yeah. If you could get grandma to make it that would be amazing.” This is the most I’ve said to her in the past few weeks and she looks elated.
    “Of course! Grandma is the only one who can pull it off that well.”
    I nod. She looks as if she’d won her women’s tennis tournament and I know that her happiness will come at a price for me. She closes the door and walks away. I almost feel good for a moment but he immediately floods in. He’s decided to be elusive tonight, not appearing in any form but a feeling that he’s there.
    I hate it when he does this, prefer it when he comes in as a nightmare, something pulled straight from a horror movie. When he does this I never know where exactly he is, what he’s doing or if he’s really even there. Then he’s there, a silvery thread of mist that brushes against me like a cat, and then he’s a hyena on my floor, jaws filthy with blood, snarling. I jump back, repulsed by the smell on his breath.
    Then he’s just a voice, warm and slightly rasping that whispers in my ear. “Are you not glad to see me?” I don’t say anything, don’t know what to say. “You know it’s not polite to ignore a person,” he hisses.
    “I’m very glad to see you,” I say quietly. I would fight him longer if I could, but my strength was sapped long ago. He’s always said he’s liked resistance, but he beats us (I assume it is more than just me) until we can only cower. I know I want to trick him into being and then strike at him, hold him there until I can get proper revenge, but there is nothing in me to fight with.
    I can hear a smile in his voice. “I’m glad. Shall I return tomorrow?”
    “If you want,” I whisper.
    “I’d like to very much.” He sighs. “What shall we do now? Shall I sweep you off to Spain? Or perhaps India? We could get you a red sari, red like the paint you spilled on Claire’s book bag, red like the scarf you stole from the corner store, red like the blood that you bled from your pretty little wrists. Foolish girl, hurting yourself like that.”
    As he lists them I see them perfectly, feel the slip of paint against my fingers, the scarf against my neck, the numbing pain of the slits on my wrist and I shudder. Why had I ever glorified the dark and death and pain? Why had I loved the color black, written poetry about slipping away from life when all it truly is is suffering and torture.
    He laughs at my discomfort and suddenly we are in that place in between and he has become a man bird, the shape of a man feathered and winged and he’s holding me, holding me with a grip like shackles tightened too far, and then I’m alone in a hut, my head spinning and my body frail. I put a hand to my face, it’s not me, and am suddenly freezing, even though it must be a good hundred degrees. I put my hand out and find a wall, crumbling and peer through the dark. It’s a small house, more like hut and there are a few other figures, a women sewing hunched over her work, a child whimpering next to her. I sit up and she looks sternly at me.
    “Meera, lie back down. You are never going to get better if you keep wandering.” She speaks English but with an accent that it round and rolling and I obey, even though I don’t know who she is or what’s wrong with me. I feel my body, this body, whoever it is, spasm and I cringe, and then he’s there, a young man with dark eyes, dusky skin and soft hair. He lies down next to me and the woman looks over in alarm.
    “Who are you?” she snaps, and he simply looks at her with those soulless eyes. In horror, she says, “Those eyes are deeper than Krishna’s.”
    He grins. “Bless you woman, but I am Krishna.”
    I want to scream. I don’t know who Krishna even is, but I know he is lying to her. She bows reverently, eyes wide, and he laughs. “Good woman, let me rest here a while.”
    She doesn’t dare contradict, in fact she looks eager. To me she says, “Meera, child— you are honored to have Lord Krishna beside you.”
    I feel anger at him bubble up in me. He was fooling with her mettle, lying to her, and he smiles and lies down next to me, putting a hand to my forehead. I want to tear away but the ache inside me won’t let me do more than quiver. His touch seems to worsen it. “Are you wondering what this is?” he says quietly in my ear. “Malaria.”
    I cringe as he pulls me to him, crushing me. And he starts to hum a tune I know well. His voice is beautiful but it blackens the song, mocking it almost, and I start to cry. It’s the song my best friend used to sing all the time, under her breath, and I never did learn the words, but once she told me that it was about unrequited love and being alone. I try to block the tune from my ears, but he sings louder and I cannot keep myself from hearing it.
    He stops, chuckles and stands, pulling me up after him. He nods to the woman and we disappear, back in my room and I’m gasping on my bed and he’s standing over me. On his arm is a length of muslin, red and embroidered with gold. He draped it over my chair, takes my hand and gives it a debonair kiss and he’s gone with a word. “Tomorrow.”