Page 3 of Deliria

Recovering from what? I want to scream the words at him, to lash out too. Pound my fists into his perfectly honed chest until I get some rational answers - but a fear I can’t explain keeps them locked inside. Somehow, I know if I push him away, if I stop being anything but placid, then this will only become worse.

But can it get any worse than this? I feel like I’ve already lost my mind, lost who I was. What surely could be worse than that?

I allow him to guide me back into bed, his strength feeling like both a shield and a cage.

Once I’m settled, he steps back, his gaze lingering on my face and he leans down to cup my cheek so tenderly. “I’ll have breakfast sent up. You should eat.”

I watch him leave, the click of the door behind him a sound as final as a prison lock.

But is it? I’m here, in his home, I’m safe, I’m cared for. What cause do I have to even question his motives?

And yet, the luxury that surrounds me feels more like a gilded cage with each passing moment. And the more I sit here, docile, and stagnant, the more that delirium seems to settle in me.

My studio, I need to get to my studio.

I get back up, determined to shake off this fog of confusion, draping a robe around my body to hide my nakedness.

Art has always been my sanctuary, a place where I can pour my thoughts and fears onto canvas, translating them into something tangible.

But as I wander the labyrinthine halls of this mansion, doubt creeps in. Every painting that hangs on the walls is a stranger’s work, not a single one is mine. And a greater sense of disorientation washes over me, a tide of unease that I can’t escape.

When I find my studio at last, it’s more out of sheer luck than anything else, but the smell of oil paints and turpentine feels like a balm to my fractured senses.

I expect to see mess; a jumble of paintings, colour splashed on the floor from where my clumsiness has spilled paint.

Only, the canvases are blank. All of them. Save one- a single portrait of me, with my features contorted into a silent, never-ending scream.

It’s signed in a hand I don’t recognize, the style nothing like my own.

A shiver runs through me as I back away from it, while terror settles in my bones.

I need to get out of this house, to breathe air that isn’t tainted by secrets and lies, and God only knows what else.

But what secrets? What lies?

What the hell even are these thoughts?

I palm my face, snagging my hair in the process. It feels frazzled and dry, and I don’t doubt that is down to whatever meds I’ve been taking.

Is it me, or them?Is this paranoia part of my illness? Is this part of whatever awful thing ails me? Or is it Alex, the man I love, the man I – my thoughts seem to falter on that word. Love. Do I love him? Yes, I married him, yes there is something there, but is it actually love that I feel?

That ring around my hand feels like it’s tightening. Reacting. Punishing me for my heartlessness.

Who the fuck am I?

Memories seem to float, ones from my childhood, my mother, my brother, happier times. But I don’t see anything that links me to Alex. Nothing that explains any of this. And yet, I know he is my husband. I know we were engaged, I know that at least isn’t a lie.

My eyes dart back to that awful image, that vision of me caught in a perpetual scream.

I have to get out. I have to get some damned air.

I make my way down a narrow staircase, my footsteps echoing in the silence. This mansion feels like a mausoleum, beautiful and yet lifeless.

What I can’t figure out is how this house feels so alien and yet I can still manage to find my way. It’s like my subconscious knows all the details, it just doesn’t want to reveal that information. No, it wants to hide it away, fold it away, treasure it like a nasty little secret I’m not privy to.

As I reach a side door, with my hand on the handle, relief washes over me. It’s almost like I’ve found the exit from a great maze and beyond it is my prize. All I have to do is walk through and claim it. Claim my salvation.

“Going somewhere, princess?”

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