Page 19 of Deliria

None of this makes sense.

Not my illness. Not my confusion. Not my memory loss.

Even my anger is wrong.

I’m not an angry person, I’m not an emotional person.

At least, I wasn’t.

I push back the sleeves of my coat, staring at the scars on my arms, and will myself to remember. It doesn’t have to be all of it. It just has to be something. One puzzle piece. One thing that I can use to draw out the rest.

But all I see is darkness. Heaviness. And fear.

That’s what I feel. What keeps coming every time I try.

That same creepy tune repeats in my head again. About gardens and shadows and I don’t know what, but somehow, I know those words. I feel like I’ve sung them. Like it’s a riddle I can’t figure out.

With frustration I get up and walk along the water’s edge. The coolness of the wet sand seeps through my flimsy shoes. The confusion that has been my constant companion seems to lessen here, where the land meets the sea, as if the water has the power to wash away the fog that shrouds my mind.

But clarity is a double-edged sword.

And with it comes the realization of how precarious my situation truly is.

I am all but a prisoner in this grand estate, surrounded by people who claim to care for me while I’m certain they’re orchestrating my downfall. But why? What reason would they have to do such a thing? To smile in my face and plan my destruction as soon as my back is turned?

What awful thing could I have possibly done to deserve such a fate?

I can’t shake the feeling that there is more to this story, that the truth is something I need to understand, and it’s hidden behind the veil of my fragmented memories.

Memories that are taking far too fucking long to come back to me.

I turn my attention to the causeway, the narrow strip of land that connects this island to the mainland. From what I’ve observed, the tide goes out twice a day – long enough for supplies and things to be brought in. My dear husband and father-in-law don’t bother travelling by road, they prefer the use of the helipad.

But then, when the weather is bad, such travel is near impossible.

Right now, a storm is brewing. I can see it on the horizon. It means by nightfall I’ll be more trapped than ever. I won’t be allowed out. I won’t be able to leave. And if my husband and his father haven’t gone to work, then they’ll be here too.

We’ll all be locked in this cursed place together.

That thought seems to do something to me. It seems to set off some sort of catalyst.

I can’t stay here. I can’t be locked in with them.

The tide is low, but the path is still slightly submerged, telling me that I have an hour max before any escape route is completely barred.

It’s a risky prospect, attempting to cross it on foot, especially with the water coming in. But the allure of freedom is a siren’s call I can’t ignore. I take a tentative step onto the causeway, the water swirling around my ankles, and then another, each step a defiance of the fate that I know awaits me if I stay.

Maybe I’m too weak, too frail, but what should be a simple enough journey feels like I’m scaling a mountain. Sweat starts to pool across my forehead, trickling down my back. I’m not even halfway and I’m struggling.

I glance over my shoulder, pausing to catch my breath, and from this distance the house looks even more of a mausoleum. A great awful darkness leering down over the twisted trees, with those heavy, brooding clouds only adding to the oppression.

It looks like something from a horror movie, something from a movie set. The only thing missing from this are the bats pouring out from the turrets, screeching as they flew off.

Come on, Scarlett. I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time to linger.

If I want to get away I have to hurry.

It’s only then that I realise what I’ve missed. I’ve been too lost in my thoughts, too occupied with what ifs and maybes. The water is no longer around my ankles. No, it’s reached my shins, lapping against my thighs as the current begins to pick up.

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