Page 110 of Deliria

They can both rot here for all I care because I’ve bigger things to focus on. Far bigger things than a couple of useless maids.

I take in the broken bed, the flipped over cabinet. This was her, wasn’t it? My dear wife did all of this. But where the fuck were the maids? Did they let her go again, did they untie her? Or was it Rafferty, did my brother aid her escape?

I guess it doesn’t really matter. None of it does. By nightfall she’ll be back where she belongs and Rafferty, well, he’ll be finished.

I walk back out,head down the staircase, and keep moving through the house.

Ahead, I can see something hanging. I screw my eyes up trying to make out what it is, and then it hits me.

They’re paintings. My family’s paintings. Only the canvasses are ripped to shreds. Completely and utterly destroyed.

That fucking bitch.

Did she do that? Did she trash my house?

Maybe I’ll do the same to her, maybe I’ll take a nice sharp blade and slice it down her pretty face, see how she likes it.

The thought makes me smile and I flex my fingers, anticipating the moment I’ll wrap them around Scarlett’s delicate throat.

“Oh, Scarlett,” I call out, my voice echoing through the empty corridors. “You can’t hide forever, sweetheart.”

My footsteps echo as I make my way to her studio. If she thinks she can find sanctuary there, she’s sadly mistaken.

The door creaks open, and I’m greeted by her latest masterpiece – a self-portrait that dominates the centre of the room, not that she remembers painting it. No, she was too high, too out of it to truly be aware of what she was doing that day. But it had been a marvel to watch her, to see her at work.

The image is breathtaking, I’ll give her that.

She’s captured herself in a moment of exquisite agony, face contorted, eyes wide with terror. It’s beautiful.

I approach the painting, running my fingers along the canvas, feeling the tiny bumps where the oil has dried unevenly.

“You’ve always had a talent for capturing pain, darling. But you haven’t seen anything yet.” A smile spreads across my face as I imagine all the ways I’ll make that painted expression become reality.

Four more days. That’s all I have. All she has too.

I intend to make them last. Every second, every hour, I’m going to savour all of it.

The studio proves empty, but I’m not discouraged. This little game of cat and mouse only makes the hunt more exciting. I move methodically through the mansion, room by room.

The library has books scattered across the floor like fallen soldiers.

The conservatory has all the windows shattered, letting in the cool night air.

I continue on to the music room where my grandmother’s precious piano stands, only now it’s lying on its side, stringsexposed like broken ribs. How the fuck she managed to do that I don’t know, but that of all things pisses me off.

Each new discovery of destruction makes my blood boil hotter. She’ll pay for every single piece she’s damaged.

A flash of movement ahead catches my eye. I freeze, listening intently. The house seems to groan around me, but beneath those familiar sounds, I hear something else, the whisper of fabric, a held breath.

“I saw you, Scarlett,” I purr, stalking forward. “Are you tired of fighting me yet? Ready to come back to your cage and submit?”

The destruction leads me down the west wing, where portraits of my ancestors have been systematically defaced. Their judgmental eyes are now slash marks, accusatory fingers now hanging in strips. She’s trying to hurt me through them, but she doesn’t understand, they mean nothing compared to what her death will grant me.

Something clatters in the darkness ahead, like a tiny clue that the house is laying at my feet.

I smile, knowing I’m getting closer.

Any minute now I will reach out my hand and when I pull it back, she’ll be there, caught, like a little mouse in a trap.

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