Page 55 of Deliria

But instead, it puts me more on edge. Why the fuck would I need a weapon? Am I in that much danger, wherever the hell I am that I need this sort of protection?

A piece of string dangles from the trigger, with a tiny bit of torn paper. In that same scrawly handwriting says ‘for later’ - as if that means anything.

How am I meant to know when ‘later’ is?

I grit my teeth, turning my attention to the second item that’s been revealed. It’s a book. An old one, with a worn green leather cover. The title was once embossed in gold, but that too has worn away to nothing.

I open it up, flicking through the pages and come to a stop as I realise that someone has scrawled all over the print.

No, not someone.

Me.

It’s my handwriting. My words.

I scan through, reading as quickly as I can. Devouring snippets of what looks like a diary. At least it’s some vain attempt at one. Were these moments when I had enough clarity to log what was going on? Is this memory loss and confusion more than I realise it is?

As I read, the horror of my situation unfolds before me.

I’m married. I marriedhim. Alexander Forster.

What in the world would have led me to do such a stupid, reckless, unthinkable thing as that?

Oh, I remember him. I remember our dates, his charm, his confidence too. But I remember something else; his need for control, his love of possessing things. At first, I’d felt thrilled, flattered even that a man as great as he was, was interested in lowly little me, and then I realised it wasn’t me he wanted. Not my personality, not my passions. He wanted me; the beauty, me; the trophy. I was to be seen and not heard. Silently alluring. And most of all, obedient.

Why the fuck did I marry him? Why would I have been so stupid as that?

But it gets worse. So much worse.

I choke up. I have to stop myself from reading more as vision after awful vision comes flooding back into my head. It’s like a graphic horror movie, a montage I can’t escape from, only it’s not fiction. I can feel that it’s real, that they did that.

The drugs, the manipulation, the control—it’s all laid bare, a twisted script written in my very own terrified hand.

And then the realization hits me like a physical blow; this is why I feel so broken, so utterly shattered, so bruised and battered.

They didthatto me. While I was unconscious. Did they assault me in this very room? Or was I drugged and abused somewhere else, then put to bed here to wake up as if it’d never happened?

Nausea roils in my stomach and I bolt for the bathroom, retching until there’s nothing left but dry heaves and the bitter taste of bile. I slide to the floor, my body wracked with sobs, the cold tile against my skin feeling like the only comfort I know I’ll get in this cursed place.

I can’t stay here.

But as I pace the room, the words I wrote repeat in my head whisper of my helplessness.

Even if I can get out of this building, the tide keeps me confined, granting me a mere hour of freedom each day.

I am isolated. Completely alone. And at the mercy of monsters.

I can’t stay here.

I can’t be a sitting duck, waiting for Alex and his father to come and rape me again.

Despite the fear that claws at my insides, I resolve to explore the house, to understand the labyrinth that has become my prison. Maybe there is some way out, something I haven’t yet discovered.

I half expect the door to be locked, but it opens easily. There isn’t even a creak of the hinges – should I be grateful for that? Or repulsed by the knowledge that it’s probably well-oiled for a reason? They wouldn’t want to be waking up the ghosts when they waltzed into my room each night to abuse me, now would they?

The hallway beyond is ornate. High ceilings, with fancy stone carvings and whitewashed walls. It looks like the set of some gothic novel.

A few oil paintings decorate the vast expanse, but the faces are oppressive. They stare down with scowling, judgemental looks so lifelike it feels like any minute they’ll crawl out of those gilded frames and start admonishing me.

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