I first met her at a funeral. My mom’s uncle had passed and although we’d hardly known him, Mom felt that it was important to pay our respects to a family member.
The girl sat by herself in the very center of the last pew although there was plenty of room closer to the front. She didn’t look at all familiar and I occupied myself throughout the long service by dreaming up various explanations of her identity. The one that I kept coming back to was that she was the teenage mistress of the deceased.
Most of the mourners milled about the anteroom after the service, reacquainting themselves with each other and filling the room with small talk; basically killing time until the trip to the cemetery. The girl stood apart from the small crowd, speaking with nobody and appearing to be just an outside observer. I approached her with the intent of making her feel more comfortable.
From a nearer distance, she looked somewhat unusual. Certainly, her long black velvet dress seemed appropriate for a funeral, but the klunky boots? Not so much. Her raven-colored hair, spiky at the top, bangs in the front, fell nearly to the small of her back, just above a large lace ribbon which was tied in a bow at the back of the dress. I was somehow entranced by the ribbon, wondering what would happen if I were to untie it. She turned as I approached and this is really where she appeared to me to be not quite right. She had a piercing in her nose, another at her right eyebrow and two in her lower lip. The two silver rings in her lip contrasted sharply with the black lipstick. Her coal-black eyes were outlined with black eyeliner and met my face with an empty stare when I greeted her.
“Hi, I’m Robert,” I said, and held out my hand.
“Lilith,” she whispered as she removed a black opera glove to reveal a thin white arm. She briefly pressed my outstretched hand with a graceful hand of her own, which despite the glove, was quite cold. I noticed, of course, that her fingernails were painted black.
“How did you know Uncle Bill,” I asked, smiling as I recalled my little fantasy.
She merely smiled back at me and replaced the glove. She shrugged her shoulders and turned to leave, saying nothing as she walked out the door.

When it rains it pours. Two months later I found myself at another funeral. This time it was for a cousin on my father’s side. Mom and I joined my estranged dad at the church and we were fortunate to find a place to sit in the crowded little chapel. This was a more emotional affair than Uncle Bill’s funeral. Dad’s side of the family had always been more passionate and demonstrative than Mom’s; and the deceased was a young woman who had died in a car accident. There was more wailing in that room than at a nursery whose staff had forgotten lunchtime. I don’t mean to make light of the grief. My cousin was a beautiful girl who had been prematurely cut down in a gruesome wreck. To make matters worse, the other driver was drunk and had walked away with nary a scratch. Although my cousin and I hadn’t been close, I, too, was moved to tears.

Near the end of the service, I happened to turn towards the back of the chapel. I was surprised to see, standing just apart from a group of mourners against the back wall, Lilith. She looked just as she had the last time I’d seen her except that her jet black hair now included numerous streaks of blood-red; the severe bangs that had covered her forehead had been trimmed into asymmetrical layers that nearly covered her left eye. Her new hairstyle was completed with the addition of a side pony-tail above her right temple. It was a unique look, to say the least, but I have to admit that I found it to be somewhat provocative.
When I joined her at the conclusion of the service and said hello, I could not ascertain if she remembered me. She seemed a little confused when we shook hands and once again addressed me with that vacant stare.
“Robert,” I reminded her.
“Yes,” she replied, uncertainly.
“We met at my uncle’s funeral a couple of months ago.”
“That’s right,” she declared, giving me no clue as to whether she remembered.
She did not disagree that it was a coincidence that we’d met at two of my relatives’ funerals and was quite vague about how she knew my cousin. She abruptly said goodbye and walked out the door. I shook my head in befuddlement and watched her as she crossed the street, noticing for the first time how rythmically her hips swayed when she walked.


“Please, Robert, do it for me. I think you would enjoy it anyway.”
Mom was trying to convince me, a few weeks later, to call the daughter of her newest friend.
She was always trying to set me up with blind dates. I guess she was under the impression that I needed help finding a girl. Actually, I did okay for myself and I felt that the process of meeting somebody on your own and getting to know her was a lot more exciting than being thrown together with a stranger who had a better than even chance of being a loser.
“Mom, you know how I hate blind dates,” I complained. “Why did you tell Mrs. Parker that I would do it?”
“Because this girl sounds perfect for you. You know how much I like Mrs. Parker and if her daughter is anything like her you’ll have a great time. Mrs. Parker is one of the most interesting people I know and, of course, stunningly beautiful. She says that Elizabeth looks like her and is extremely intelligent. The only reason she doesn’t have a boyfriend, I’m sure, is because she’s only lived in this city for less than a year.
“And in addition,” she said with a wink, “Elizabeth has her own apartment.”
So, I called this Elizabeth and made a date for that Friday evening.

She finally opened the door after my fourth set of knocks. “Hello, Robert,” she whispered with a small smile. My confusion must have shown because her smile became a little larger.
“Lilith? What are you doing here?”
“Why, I live here, of course.”
“Oh,” I replied, feeling stupid as it finally dawned on me. “I didn’t realize that Elizabeth had a roommate.”
“She doesn’t,” Lilith laughed. “I’m Elizabeth. I mean, my mom named me Elizabeth but I’ve always hated that name. Lilith is a more appropriate name for me, don’t you think?”
After a moment’s consideration, I agreed.

She invited me in and I had to adjust to a different reality. Some weird song called “Bela Lugosi is Dead” was playing on the stereo. No lights were on in the black-walled apartment; it was lighted by dozens of candles, and the room was filled with a sweet aroma, like the incense they burn in church.
“What is that scent,” I asked, politely.
“Oh, that’s frankincense,” she replied. “It drives away mosquitoes.”
“It’s also used at funerals to cover the stink of the dead,” I muttered to myself.

As my eyes adjusted to the candle light, I saw that she was, once again, dressed all in black; this time, in laughably stark contrast to my khaki slacks and blazer, she wore a black tee shirt, illustrated in front with a pink pentagram, and a pair of black cut-off shorts which revealed long, shapely legs, the color of virgin snow. Strangely, she still wore her opera gloves.
I had to admit that she was pretty despite the piercings and the black makeup and her decidedly informal approach to dressing for a date. As promised, she was also very intelligent and had a keen, if macabre, sense of humor. And despite her hard, all-black look, I could sense her fragility and I felt an inexplicable urge to protect her.
I questioned that urge, though, when she mockingly suggested that I was dressed well enough to be laid out in a coffin. I was about to walk out in a huff but she sweet-talked me into staying.

We just hung out in the apartment and before I knew it, it was past midnight and time for me to go.

We hung out again a few days later, and again a few days after that. By now I’d gotten used to her quirky fashion sense. I didn’t think twice about her piercings except to wonder what other parts of her were pierced; and the makeup...well, it didn’t bother me. I only had trouble getting used to the gloves that she constantly wore.
There were some weird surprises. When I asked how she had known my relatives at whose funerals we’d met, she admitted that she’d never known them. “I just like going to funerals,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Funerals and graveyards.”
“Why,” I asked, astonished by her strange revelation.
“Because they make me feel at home.”

One day I finally seduced her into removing the gloves. My heart sank when I saw her bare arms. The slender limbs were covered with scabs and tiny scars.
“Oh, Lilith,” I said. “Why?”
“It’s no big deal,” she replied in a spiritless whisper. “It’s just that sometimes I get to feeling dead inside. I cut myself to see if I still feel; to see if I’m alive.”

After a few months, we were going strong. We were together nearly every day and I had never before had such feelings for anyone as I now had for her. She had undergone a metamorphosis. She was obviously happier, more confident and a little less weird. She smiled more often and instead of that dull, dark stare, her black eyes now shone as brightly as halogen headlights.
For my part, I’d become less conservative in dress and in attitude. While I did not yet have the fashion instincts of a Goth, I at least did not arrive at her apartment dressed like a stockbroker. I had learned to appreciate the unusual and I no longer thought of her as weird.

“It’s been exactly three months since I last cut myself,” she said proudly one evening. “And it’s all because of you.”
“You’re giving me way too much credit,” I answered, “and yourself, too little.”
"No, Robert, you deserve the credit. You’re the first person in the world that has ever made me feel this happy."

She still loved to attend funerals, though. She convinced me to accompany her to a couple but I found it creepy and gave it up. I did, however, enjoy our outings to cemeteries. We would walk hand in hand through the graveyards, reading the inscriptions on the stones and making up stories about the folks who were buried beneath them. It was fascinating to see some of the gravestones from more than a hundred years ago. It was like a history lesson minus the traditional classroom.
Sometimes, we went at night.These dates were both spooky and romantic. It was during a nocturnal outing to a graveyard behind an eighteenth century church that she first gave herself to me, on the floor of an old mausoleum.

As the relationship progressed, I began to feel that we were meant to spend our lives together. I began to drop occasional hints about marriage but although she never exactly discounted the idea, she always seemed to ignore my hints or change the subject.
“Let’s just enjoy life while we’re young, Robert,” she said once when I did a little more than hint. She spent the rest of the day in an irrational sulk.

Gradually, her demeanor darkened again and she seemed to be drifting away. She made more frequent visits to funerals and I suspected that she’d been making covert trips to graveyards, as well. Absurdly, I felt pangs of jealousy when I thought of her alone with the buried dead, as if she’d taken other lovers.
At least, there were no fresh cuts on her arms.

“What’s wrong Lilith,” I asked one night.
“Nothing. I’m just a little depressed. I’ll be twenty-one soon and that will be the end of my youth.”
I laughed, despite myself. “Twenty-one is old? Please!”
“Robert, don’t laugh at me,” she cried, and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door in my face.

Yes, she would soon be twenty-one and I planned a large celebration. I had twenty-one small gifts picked out, the last of them a diamond engagement ring for which I’d taken out a loan. I planned to give her the gifts as soon as I arrived and then we would go out for a fancy dinner. Perhaps it would all lead to a trip to the cemetery.
I tried my hardest to get her excited about the landmark event but the best I could get was an occasional smile.

The big day finally arrived. I got to her place at seven, as planned. She didn’t answer the door when I knocked but that was not unusual, so I let myself in. I found her in her bed, dressed, uncharacteristically, in a formal white gown. An arm dangled from the side of the bed and her ebony eyes were half-closed. She was barely conscious. An empty pill bottle stood on her nightstand next to a full one.
“Oh, Robert,” she whispered, more inaudibly than usual, “I’m sorry to be leaving you but twenty-one is the time for me to go. I’m no longer a child and have lived as long as I’ve always planned. I know that you wanted to marry me and that you bought me a ring. That’s why I’m wearing white tonight; consider this my wedding dress and tonight our wedding night. I’ll be your bride for eternity.

“Do you see the bottle of pills on the nightstand? That is my wedding gift to you. Live happily for as long as you desire and when you’ve had enough, let the pills take you to me so that we may be together forever in the next world. Until we meet again, those pills will be our bond.”
With that, her eyes fluttered and closed and she breathed her last breath, dying with a spooky smile on her face.