Page 29 of Deliria

She doesn’t look so beautiful anymore. She looks exactly like what she is.

I turn on my heels, scoop my clothes up, not bothering to cover her up and I leave her to the night chill.

Let that be another lesson; without my say so she’ll have no comfort, no kindness. She owes everything to me, it’s about time she remembered that fact.

Scarlett

“In the garden where shadows grow,

A secret whispered, soft and low.

The roses bloom, but then wilt away,

And the truth lies buried, night and day.

The songbird weeps within her cage,

A melody lost to both time and age.

Her wings are clipped, her cries are unheard,

A prison is built around every word.”

Iwake with a moan, that strange tune hauntingly familiar as it plays over and over in my head like a broken record. My heart feels slow, unsteady and my head is so groggy that it takes more than a minute to fully acknowledge that I’m no longer dreaming.

I feel freezing cold and, despite the blanket over me, I can feel my body shivering.

The room is bathed in a soft, golden light, the heavy curtains doing their best to keep out the reality of the world beyond these four walls. But I recognise the wallpaper. I recognise the furniture.

That’s an improvement, surely?

Alex is there, seated in a plush armchair beside the bed, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, in a tailored shirt that accentuates his broad shoulders and the sharp line of his jaw.

But there’s a weariness in his eyes, a hint of vulnerability that I haven’t seen before. Guilt hits me at the realisation that I’m the cause of that. I’m the one keeping him up at night, stressing him out.

“Scarlett,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “You’re awake.”

I try to sit up, but my body feels too heavy, too sluggish, like I’m moving through quicksand. My mouth is dry, and when I speak, my voice is little more than a croak. “What happened? I feel... strange.”

Alex leans forward, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. His touch is gentle, but I can’t help flinching. I guess that’s a reflex born of fear and confusion but if he notices, he doesn’t comment on it.

Instead, he takes a deep breath. “You had another episode,” he says. “You were trying to leave again, to go out into the storm.You could have hurt yourself, Scarlett. You could have…” He cuts off, his voice choked with emotion. “You could have died.”

I stare at him, the weight of his words settling over me like a shroud.

Another episode?

More memories lost to the fog that seems to consume my mind. I want to ask him what he means, how I could have died, but the words stick in my throat, trapped by a sense of dread that I can’t quite shake.

“The doctor has been to see you,” Alex continues, his tone carefully neutral. “He’s very concerned about your condition. He says it’s... serious.”

I swallow hard, my mind racing. The doctor. I remember him vaguely, a stern man with cold hands and an even colder demeanour.

He’s been here before, poking and prodding at me like I’m some sort of specimen to be studied rather than a human being in need of help.

As if by perfect timing, the door to the room opens and the doctor himself steps inside, a sombre expression on his face. He’s followed closely by Vincent, who’s equally stern countenance does nothing to ease my growing anxiety. The two of them stand at the foot of the bed, their presence a silent testament to the gravity of the situation.

In his hand, the doctor carries a small black bag, the kind that harkens back to a bygone era of house calls and bedside manner.

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