Page 56 of Deliria

But I know where I am. What this house is.

It’s the Forster Mansion. More like a castle really. It was built on this island by Alex’s forefathers god knows how many years ago. Built to show off their wealth and grandeur. Their status. To ensure the entire world knows how untouchable they are.

My stomach turns again and for a second, I think I might hurl up right here, over their precious floorboards.

I need to pull myself together. I need to get control. To figure a plan out.

But as I force myself onwards another vision flashes in my head. A memory.

Sebastian.

He’s lying there, within touching distance, only my limbs are too broken, too damaged for me to have the ability to reach out.

And I can see it, the look in his eyes, that vacant haze where once life was so visible.

He’s dead.

And they were the ones who killed him.

I don’t know how I know that fact. I don’t know why I’m so certain when everything else in my head is a fog of confusion, but I know it’s true. I know it. The Forster’s killed my brother. They caused the car crash. And they brought me here.

But why?

Why would they need to do any of that?

Footsteps in the distance make me freeze. Is that him, is that Alex? It feels like an entire bucket of ice-cold water is suddenly tipped over me. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I swear I’m hyperventilating. I’m in complete meltdown, but whoever it is, whoever they are, they don’t turn down this corridor. Instead, they walk on, and only the passing shadows tell me that they’re real, that they were there, that it wasn’t some awful hallucination.

I feel like I’m going crazy. I feel like I’m on the cusp of a complete breakdown – but that’s exactly what they want, isn’t it?That’s whathewants. He wants me to believe that I’m insane, that I’m sick, that I’m some sort of invalid completely dependent on him.

God, how long have I been here?

How many months have I been lost in my own head, trapped in this bullshit lie, believing every word, and blindly trusting that the Forster’s have my best interests at heart when the reality is the total opposite?

In my frantic state I start walking with no sense of direction, no record of what turns I make, what passages I walk down, where I end up.

I find myself in a room, in a tower. The view from the window is both hypnotic and horrific. All I can see are those brutal waves, that dark stormy water that keeps me, keep this entire island, cut off from the mainland.

Goosebumps erupt over my skin as I absentmindedly rub my forearms. It feels like some sort of insect crawls right up my spine.

There’s a dozen canvasses, all on easels, all spread out at different points. The way the light catches them makes them look like more than just the white blankness, but I know that’s just a trick too. An illusion.

They’re blank. Untouched, just as the brushes appear to be. Just as the paint is.

Is thismystudio?

Is this some space Alex set up for me, so I’d be lulled into some false sense of security, of complacency? My art was always my sanctuary, my safe space, my way of switching off from the world and escaping. That bastard has even taken and manipulated that.

I snarl, hurling a paint pot across the room and because the lid was clearly not on properly, it splatters over one of thecanvasses, covering it in bright viridian before it lands on its side, dripping more paint onto the floor.

My chest heaves as I glare at the drips, practically daring them to do something.

If modern art were my thing, then this could be quite something. Jackson Pollock eat your heart out.

I shake my head, wondering whether my humour is actually a good coping mechanism, or whether it only further pitches me over that cusp of insanity. But my eyes snag on something. A tiny piece of white.

I fall onto my knees, snatching it up from its hiding place, realising it’s another of these ‘so-called notes’, a cryptic message that maybe one day will all make sense, but right now it’s as good as useless.

“Keep going. He will help you.”It says, as if that is meant to mean something.

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