Page 37 of Deliria

I take it, unable to hide my reluctance and I swallow the pills, only because I know there isn’t any other choice here.

He smiles, clearly content that he’s managed to find me so fucking docile this morning and I lean into him, pretending that I need him, that I trust him. That I find comfort in his presence.

“Get some rest.” He says, gently leaning me back into the pillows. “I’ll have a maid bring up some breakfast for you.”

I smile back, murmuring my thanks, all meek and obedient - just as he likes. And then I wait as he turns and walks so damn slowly out of the room. In my head I can hear a literal clock ticking. Tick tock. Tick tock.

I’m running out of time already.

As soon as the door shuts, as soon as I’m alone, I spring from the bed and I’m in the bathroom, hunched up over the toilet, hurling those fucking pills back up.

It’s not easy to do. I ram my fingers so far down my throat that I’m practically choking on them, but I’m not giving up. No fucking way. I practically wail with relief when I realise it’s working. There’s little food in my stomach, and along with the pills comes a mouthful of foul-tasting bile. I grab a swig of mouthwash, rinsing away the taste, and in my head it’s like a swig of champagne. A toast to my victory.

After I’ve fixed my features in the mirror, I get back into bed, playing the game further because the maids are not on my side. The staff are all on his payroll.

Every single person in this house is the enemy until I can categorically prove otherwise.

It’s late morning.I laid in bed, playing the sick little wife for as long as I could bear. But that voice kept repeating in my head.

Get to the library.

I don’t have a clue what it means, but as I walk in, I’m more than grateful to see it’s empty.

The scent of leather-bound books and the faint aroma of aged paper fill the air, offering a comforting familiarity. I wander between the towering shelves, my fingers grazing the spines of books as I pass.

I’d hoped that simply being in this room would trigger some sort of revelation.

But as I stand here, surrounded by shelves, nothing comes.

Disappointment washes over me, but I refuse to let it defeat me. I need to be proactive, to search for something—anything—that might help explain why this place holds some sort of importance.

I begin to examine the titles more closely, pulling out volumes at random, flipping through pages in the desperate hope that something will jar my mind into cooperation. But it’s all just words on a page, devoid of meaning, failing to ignite the spark of recognition I so desperately crave.

And then, almost as if it’s calling out to me, I see it. Gold embossed letters that glint in the dull light. With tremblinghands, I pull it from the shelf. It’s an old book, the cover is almost worn entirely at the edges and could obviously do with being rebound.

As I open it to the first page, my heart skips a beat.

My own messy handwriting stares back at me, the ink barely dry in places.

It’s a record of my thoughts, my fears, my suspicions— a chronicle of my descent into complete madness. Or so they would have me believe.

I sink into a nearby armchair, the book clutched tightly in my hands as I begin to read. Page after page, entry after entry, I delve into the mind of a woman who is both intimately familiar and at the same time, a complete stranger to me.

There are gaps, moments of time that are missing or distorted, but the overarching narrative is clear; I am being manipulated, controlled, and almost certainly drugged by the very people who claim to care for me. By my own husband.

The realization is both terrifying and liberating. Terrifying because it confirms my worst fears, and liberating because it validates the nagging doubts that have plagued me for so long.

I am not insane.

I am not imagining things.

There is a conspiracy unfolding around me, and I am at the centre of it.

With newfound determination, I add my latest observations to the journal, documenting everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve experienced since my last entry.

It’s a risk, writing it all down. If they found this, if they realised what I know… but what choice do I have? This journal is my lifeline, my only hope of maintaining my sanity in a world that seems intent on destroying it.

Once I’ve finished, I tuck the book back into its hiding place on the shelf, ensuring it’s positioned exactly as I found it. But asI turn to leave, a sense of unease settles over me. The library may be a sanctuary, but it’s not a fortress.

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