Page 11 of Deliria

I scramble to the bathroom to do as I’m told and by the time I’m back, he’s gone. Left. Like he can’t stand to be around me.Is this what our relationship is now, is this what it’s come down too?

Outside, the rain has turned into a raging storm. I can hear the rain lashing at the windows and the wind howls like a monster come to finally see me off. But as the lightning strikes, as it streaks across the horizon and the entire room is illuminated, I see him.

I see a shadow.

A man.

Someone stands in the darkness. Watching.

Were they there the whole time? Did they see what my husband did? Did they watch us having sex? My stomach twists, my body trembles and I’m reminded then that I’m as good as naked.

I rush back into the bathroom, grabbing the robe to cover myself, and when I return there is no one there, just an empty corner.

It could be a trick.

A figment of my imagination.

And yet, I know it wasn’t. I know someone was there. Just like I knew that nightmare I had before was real.

I creep over, crossing the expanse of the room and though the floor is polished, I can still make out marks, imprints of overpriced, over tailored men’s shoes.

Scarlett

Another day has passed. Another day where I woke confused, in pain, staring at surroundings that felt as strange as they did unfamiliar.

Alex was there when I awoke and, after making sure I understood the rules, he left me to it.

I’m not to overexert myself. I’m not to go off gallivanting around the island. I’m to remain in the house and can only go out into the grounds if I’m appropriately dressed and easily viewed from the windows.

I’m not to go to the cliffs.

I’m not to be difficult with the staff.

And most especially, I am to rest. To take it easy.

As if I ever had the temperance for lounging around.

I tried to paint. I desperately tried to sketch something, anything.

But the ink refused to flow, and the brushes were not my friends.

I ate in silence, alone, in the austere dining room. I know Irene, Alex’s mother, also resides here but she stays mostly in her own wing, and even more so when her husband and favourite son are away.

It’s not that she hates me. But she certainly doesn’t like me either. Perhaps she was put out that Alex didn’t marry someone ‘more suitable’. Someone with the right education, with the right family name. Someone who attended their country club and moved in their circles. God, I can imagine her reaction when she heard he was dating a struggling artist, one that had to work as a barmaid to pay the bills, because their family weren’t wealthy enough to cover the expenses. How she reacted to us getting engaged I have no idea, but she plays her part well when it’s necessary to do so.

I’ve laid awake, wondering where my husband is, while the note I found in my studio burns a hole in my nightstand drawer. I’ve read it so many times that the words are etched into my mind, becoming a mantra of fear and uncertainty.

“You’re not safe here. Trust no one.”

Sleep is a distant dream, its promise of respite a cruel joke. Every time I close my eyes, I’m assaulted by fragmented memories and half-formed fears.

I see Alex’s face, his smile masking an abyss I’m only beginning to fully understand.

I hear Rafe’s voice, its low timbre both a threat and a lifeline in the chaos that surrounds me.

With frustration, I throw off the covers, and the cool air sets goosebumps across my skin.

I can’t stay here, trapped within these four walls, becoming more and more a prisoner of my own mind as well as the machinations of the Forster family.

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