Page 21 of Deliria

Once inside,I retreat to the sanctuary of my room, stripping off my sopping wet clothes and stepping into the shower. Thehot water helps to chase away the chill that has settled into my bones, but it does nothing to ease the turmoil in my mind.

And as I dry off and dress, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched again.

Is it Vincent, is he back again? Leering at me in another of my most intimate moments? Are there peepholes? Are his eyes hidden amongst the flowery patterns of the wallpaper?

I don’t know what to do. I don’t even feel like I can trust my own head, my own emotions here.

I need to get it together. I need to make a plan. I need to… my thoughts trail off as I notice the envelope peeking out from the top drawer of my dressing room.

I snatch at it as if it’s a lifeline.

The paper is crisp and white, but small and torn as if it’s been stolen from a pad in haste. “You’re in danger,” it reads; that same message that has been left for me before.

A shiver runs down my spine as I tuck it into the pocket of my robe.

I know I can’t confront Alex with this. He would only dismiss my concerns, or worse, use them as another means to tighten his control over me. No, I need to handle this on my own. I need to find a way to protect myself, to document what I remember and what I discover, so that I can piece together the truth.

With a newfound sense of purpose, I make my way to the library, my eyes scanning the shelves for a book that might serve as a suitable hiding place for my thoughts. My fingers brush against the spine of an old tome, its pages worn and its cover faded from years of neglect.

It’s the perfect choice, a book that no one would miss if it were to go missing.

I carefully remove the book from the shelf, opening the book to the first page. The original text is still legible, but I don’t let that deter me. I begin to write over the faded words, recordingeverything I can remember, every suspicion, every fear, every fragment of memory that has managed to survive the fog of confusion and manipulation.

I write about the party, the way Alex and Vincent looked at me, the sense of foreboding that seemed to permeate the air. I write about the notes, the mysterious warnings that have been left for me to find. I write about Rafe too, especially the conflict I see in his eyes, the way he both frightens but also intrigues me. And I also write about what Vincent did, how he hurt me; I know those are the most damning words, the words that’ll condemn me if this book is found, but I can’t leave it out, I can’t risk me waking up and not remembering and stupidly thinking that these people are my friends.

As I fill the pages with my desperate scrawl, a sense of calm washes over me.

This is my weapon.

My way of fighting back.

I may not have the freedom to leave this place, but I can still assert my will, my identity, through the power of my words. Will this become a diary, a record of my ascent into madness or become evidence, proof that I’m not the one who’s insane? I don’t know. I wish I did. But just recording this gives me a tiny sense of control.

When I’m finished, I carefully close the book, replacing it on the shelf to maintain the illusion that nothing is amiss.

Tomorrow I will come back for it. Tomorrow, I will pull it back out and write down anything and everything that happens. Even if it takes me months, I will remember what happened to me. I will put together the puzzle.

I am not powerless. I am not defeated.

And I will uncover the truth, no matter what it costs me.

No matter if it’s me? No, it’s can’t be me. It’s not me. It is them. I know it’s them.

I square my shoulders and walk back to my room.

I can’t help but feel a glimmer of hope.

But as I walk through the door, that glimmer shatters entirely and I realise how ridiculously naïve I’ve been about this entire situation.

“And where exactly have you been?”

His voice, his tone, even the way he is stood sets off a massive alarm bell. I scramble back, my bare feet screeching on the hardwood.

But there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

From behind, a hand grabs me, and something is forced into my mouth. It tastes horrific. Bitter. The distinct foul taste of medicine.

My nose is pinched, my jaw is wrenched up and despite my struggles I swallow it all down while an only too familiar voice murmurs in my ear to “be a good girl and take my meds.”

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