Page 54 of Deliria

I can’t say anything.

All I can do is look on in horror as the darkness in front of us rushes up to meet the wreck that is our car…

“Sebastian.”

I wake with a start, unsure if I actually spoke his name out loud, or just screamed it in my head.

The remnants of a nightmare cling to me, that harrowing vision of twisted metal and shattered glass lingering behind my eyes. And Sebastian, his lifeless eyes staring back at me from the fog of my memory.

We were fleeing, but from whom?

Why was I so scared?

Why would I even need my brother to rescue me?

The answer feels like it’s just beyond my reach. That it’s teasing, taunting me. But it’s not ready to reveal its secret just yet.

For a moment I lie there, disoriented, in a room that is both unfamiliar and horribly, horribly cold.

My body aches all over with a constant throb of pain. Each bruise is a note of violence played upon my skin. I move gingerly, like a wary animal testing its injuries, and the soreness that blooms in response confirms the brutality of my condition.

I don’t know what happened to me.

I don’t know what is going on, but my head is racing.

Was that car crash real? Did that just happen? Where am I?

I force myself up, stumbling to what I assume is the bathroom.

It’s spacious, with white marble tiles and a big claw-footed bathtub in front of a bay window.

At the sink, I splash cold water on my face, hoping to not only wash away the lingering terror but to somehow wake myself up, to shock myself into remembering whatever this place is.

The person in the mirror is a stranger. I look half starved, I look too pale, and my face is twisted into a mask of fear. There’s a livid bruise on my cheek and it’s obvious I’ve been hit, beaten.

Where the fuck am I?

I open the cupboard, searching for something, anything, to ground me in this alien place and provide some sort of reason. There’s a pile of neatly arranged toiletries and in amongst them, a note catches my eye.

I snatch it up, desperate for whatever clue it might be. “Check under the floorboards” it reads.

The handwriting is not mine, but it’s familiar all the same. I frown, rubbing my face, my memory whispering that I’ve seen these notes before. That I’ve been left similar before.

With trembling hands, I return to the room, my eyes darting to the wooden planks beneath my feet.

What possible horror could be lurking beneath?

There’s a thick rug covering most of the room, with the antique bed placed on top. I fall to my hands and knees, running my fingertips over the visible wood, hoping to find some sort of hint.

And then there, hidden in the corner, a nick in the wood beckons me. I pry the board loose, snapping a few nails as I do it, and beneath I find a little nook.

My hand slips inside. There’s something in the darkness, heavy, wrapped in fabric. I pull it up, placing what looks like adirty linen pillowcase in my lap. It’s wrapped tightly, and it takes me a moment to undo the knot. When I get it open, I jump back in shock.

It’s a gun.

Why the fuck is there a gun hidden under my bed?

It’s small, what most people would class as a hand pistol. I don’t know how to check if it’s loaded, so I assume it is. Its presence should give me some sense of relief. I mean, I have a weapon now.

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