Lillian

The soft patter of rain echoes through the church. Upon an old, wooden bench, I sit with my legs crossed and occupy myself with a book. The occasional sharp turning of pages interrupts the monotonous tone of the passing storm. The flicker of candlelight illuminated the book page's dark, inked words, yet I can't feel the fire's warmth.

In the early hours of the morning, I find joy by busying myself with reading. In the corner of the vacant church, stacks of books tower over the pews. Closing the last page of my current read, I stride to the stack, placing the book neatly on top of the pile.

Tick, tick, tick.

I glance at the ancient clock mounted onto the wall. By some miracle, it still functioned. Reading the time, I promptly walk over to a rotten ladder. Step by step, I hoist myself onto the church's protruding window seal. Its frame is just wide enough for me to perch on. I check the clock once more, then peer out the window.

The storm has lightened, with the dark clouds dissipating to reveal a fiery sky. Hues of blazing red mingle with the soft blues of the night sky, as dawn approached. The warm glow of the emerging sun lit up the soaked graveyard, the lush fields and stone gravestones surrounding the abandoned church.

Since I first stumbled upon the church, it had become a morning routine to admire the sunrise. It provided something to look forward to in the dull days of my existence.

In the past, I would gaze upon the sunrise with my younger sister, but presently, her busy life does not allow for much free time.

The bright sun reveals itself over the horizon, the vivid colors dissipating. The spectacle was over.

I leap down from the window seal and walk over to the church's grand doors. The rain had reduced to a faint mist, and the conditions were pleasant enough to venture outdoors.

It takes a few tugs at the heavy doors for them to swing open—the result of years of water rusting the metal hinges.

I place my steps carefully, avoiding the muddy puddles along the dirt paths. The gardens of the graveyard were delicately tended to, the vibrant flowers bringing comfort to those overwhelmed with grief. Piles of flowers are scattered across grave plots. In the chance that the graveyard is unoccupied, I enjoy caring for its gardens.

Today, the storm had chased out any early visitors, and I am left alone with the flowers.

Perhaps, this isolation would scare some. Yet, for me, it brought serenity. I had a distaste for people, as many would come weeping or carelessly trampling the beautiful flowerbeds, disturbing the peace.

Of course, there was nothing wrong with weeping. I'd had a fair share of sorrow myself—yet, the presence of anguished individuals chased out the critters and animals that inhabited the gardens.

I prefer it when I'm alone with nature. When people do arrive, I hide in the old church as refuge.

I sit next to my favorite garden plot and watch as animals reemerge from their homes, safe now that the storm has passed. Watching birds pluck the damp soil for worms, I lose track of time.

The light fog the storm brought covers the buildings that lie past the graveyard, but I can hear the distinct sound of school bells ringing. I once attended that school, but have since graduated. My younger sister still studies there. Typically, I wait for her to accompany me in the graveyard. It is the place we spend most of our time in.

Often, I observe my younger sister drawing. She creates pictures of us, typically drawing portraits depicting me in the sunlight. My younger sister may be the only individual whom I don't mind the presence of. She doesn't scare off the animals. In fact, the birds and rodents tend to be drawn to her. My sister doesn't talk much, but I enjoy her company.

Through the fog, a young girl, who must have been no more than eighteen, wanders through the graveyard. She doesn't greet me, but sits on a wooden bench. Reaching in her book bag, she pulls out a sketchpad and begins drawing.

I murmur a "hello" to my sister, sitting down beside her. Over her shoulder, I glance at her sketch. The picture is of us walking together along a boardwalk. She captions the sketch with the words 'Lilith and I.'

Another person walks up to the bench. He is around my sister's age, sitting down beside her. I recognize him as my sister's boyfriend, scoffing. The young boy's presence scared the birds away.

His company is unusual in the graveyard. He only visited once last year, on a certain day.

Wait.

I scan my sister's sketch for a date, finding the number that I dreaded in the right-hand corner.

Not finding the use in excusing myself, I race back to the church and hide in the wooden pews. From my hiding spot, I nervously peer out the tinted and broken windows. As expected, I observe more people joining my sister and her boyfriend. I groan with disdain. I've always dreaded this day.

I hold my breath as I watch a tall man stride to a grave plot, trampling grass and ferns as his muddy footprints destroy the delicate flowers. He talks loudly, driving the birds into the sky and squirrels back into their burrows.

My sister timidly welcomes him as her step-father, her boyfriend embracing the man cheerfully. The man's laughter rings across the graveyard. In his hand, he holds a bottle of beer. I can't smell him from a distance, but assume his scent is rancid with alcohol.

Inhaling deeply, I approach the church's cracked door for a better view of the gathering. I glare at my step-father's beady eyes. He takes no notice of me, as my hiding spot is sufficient to conceal my body. I can hear my sister's voice clearly.

"Dad?" she asks, approaching the man slowly.

He turns around offhandedly.

"Well, I was wondering... Maybe we could avoid drinking today?"

Our step-father mulls over the idea for a moment, then claps my sister on her back. She flinches as if someone struck her.

"Why don't you resume your sketching or whatever you do," the man laughs, although nothing of humor was spoken.

"Right, sorry." My sister retreats to the bench. She seems restless, fidgeting with her pencil. After a few antsy moments, she excuses herself. "I'm going to the church."

The step-father doesn't turn around, flicking his hand lazily.

The young girl strolls across the paths of the graveyard, paying careful attention to not trample the flowers. I venture further inside to church upon her arrival, waving to my sister. Climbing up the old ladder and perching on the window's platform, I listen to her talk.

"I can't stand him," my sister declares, shuffling her feet angrily. "All he does is drink. And when he's not drinking, he's yelling."

All I can do is nod in agreement.

"I should run away, like you did," she pouts, watching the gathering through the window.

"That wasn't wise of me," I admit. "I didn't end up anywhere better."

My sister ignores me, pacing around the church. "It's so stupid," she grumbles.

I sigh. "You only have a few more years in that house, at least."

"I only have a few more years until graduation," my sister relays. "After that, I won't have to deal with him anymore."

"You should get rid of that boyfriend of yours while you're at it," I comment dryly.

"Of course, you've never liked my boyfriend," my sister says, deep in thought. "I don't know how to let go of him, though. Our step-father adores him. And he adores me."

"I suppose that's enough," I say begrudgingly. "I still think you could do better than him, though."

"It's just—he reminds me too much of our step-father," my sister continues. "It's like he's turning into Dad."

"Stop calling that monster Dad," I hiss.

My sister falls silent, deep in thought. "I wish our real father was still her," she says distantly, eyeing the graveyard.

"Me too," I agree softly.

My sister walks toward the wooden ladder. "I've always liked watching the sunrise here, with you," she says, gingerly touching the splintery wood. She plants a foot on the first rung, slowly easing her weight onto the wood.

The fragile rung snaps in half, causing my sister to fall to the floor. Although she lands on her feet, her hands are red and irritated from sliding down the sharp wood.

"Rotten ladder," she curses, storming out the church's doors. I watch as she regains her composure before joining the main group. Sighing, I decide it would be best to watch the gathering and follow my sister.

"Where have you been?" the young girl's boyfriend asks her, demanding for an answer. He pays no mind to my presence.

"The church," my sister replies curtly.

"Well, we're about to start," the boy says impatiently, gesturing for her to gather around a grave plot. She complies, standing beside him. I approach my sister, gazing at the mossy gravestone.

The gathering forms a circle around the grave, and my step-father clears his throat loudly.

"Thank you for coming, everyone," he announces. He pulls out pre-written flashcards, the neat writing clearly not belonging to the man, but likely the penmanship of my little sister.

I roll my eyes.

"Your presence is truly appreciated by my daughter. I'm sure she would be very grateful to see you all here today.

"Today is a day full of memory; full of mourning and hope all at once. Today, we commemorate what we have lost, while enjoying what we have."

The crowd cheers. I groan—this is not the type of occasion for joyous speeches, or a large crowd for that matter. My step-father has always been on the search for attention, and this day was a goldmine.

"Can we just get this over with," I mutter.

"Without further ado, I would love to present my own gift to my daughter," my step-father declares.

The man draws out a bouquet of flowers, dropping them in front of the grave. He feigns a tear, wiping his face with a rough hand.

I kneel down in front of the grave, next to my step-father. Very softly, he whispers. Only I can hear the man's sinister words. I listen expectantly, knowing what is about to come out of the man's mouth. He relays this message every year.

"Oh, Lilith," my step-father snickers, a feverish grin smeared across his hideous face, "the day you died was the best day of my life."