Page 6 of Deliria

Once he’s out of sight, I emerge from my hiding place. Between my toes there’s a soily dampness that I’m trying hard to ignore. It’s like a mist has descended. Like the air is thickwith water particles and I can feel how the robe is now clinging unpleasantly to my skin.

I take a step, then see the footprint I’m leaving so obviously on the marble slab. Fuck. They’ll see this, they’ll know… I tiptoe over to the grass, wiping my soles as best I can. I don’t need them to be clean, I just need to remove enough to not leave any evidence behind.

“Well, well…” A voice says, low, threatening, far too fucking close for comfort.

As I let out a shriek, his hand smothers it. Silences it.

“You shouldn’t be out here, all alone.” He mutters into my ear. “Who knows what monsters might be lurking, waiting for the opportunity to pounce…”

I’m pushed down, forcefully manhandled back onto the same sodden grass I was only moments ago trying to clean up on.

“No…” I sound so weak, so feeble, as he pins me in place, as he yanks the ties apart and exposes my naked body to him. God, how did I become this? Where did my strength go? The old me could fight back, the old me could defend myself. Now, it feels like my muscles have wasted, that I barely have enough force to snap a twig.

“Vin, Vin…” Another backhand to the face makes me see stars. Makes my vision cloud.

I fall into it, into the darkness, only vaguely aware of the sound of a belt undoing, of the feel of my body being manoeuvred further, adjusted, before something forces itself into me with such brutality I feel my insides rip.

Scarlett

Light flickers. My head throbs. I let out a whimper as I roll over, and then a memory comes back. Mud. Dirt.

Him.

I sit up so violently my head spins.

But I’m not there, not outside. No, now I’m here, on the cool, hard floor of my studio. The portrait of me still hangs there, a silent sentinel in a room filled with absence. And my face is staring down at me, screaming, judging, whispering something I can’t comprehend.

It feels like I never left. It feels like I was here the entire time. But maybe I was, maybe I simply passed out here and all of it, all those moments; Rafe, the cliffs, Vincent too, it was just a fucked-up dream, a figment of my imagination and nothing more.

But my body is shaking, my body is trembling. I glance down at my feet and though they look clean enough, I swear I can see traces of mud. Of dirt.

If Vincent had done that, if he’d actually hurt me, why on earth would he scoop me up and return me here of all places? Why would he not put me back in my bed, or worse, toss me onto the rocks and pretend that I’d had an accident? What could he possibly gain by placing me here?

No, it has to be a nightmare. A horrific, fucked up nightmare.

I run my hand over my face, my skin feels sweaty, cool. Like I’m withdrawing from something.

What the fuck is going on here?

My heart starts beating more ominously, like it too is trying to tell me something, and my eyes land once more on that hideous image before me.

I get to my feet, ignoring the way my legs protest and I approach the painting slowly, reaching my hand out to trace the contours of my twisted face.

Who painted this?

What is the point of it?

And why the hell does it fill me with such dread?

I turn away, my gaze falling on the other canvases surrounding the room, all of them blank. They feel like windows into a part of my soul I can no longer reach, a part of me that has been lost or locked away, and a deep resounding fear grows at the thought that I may never be set loose again.

I pick up a brush, the bristles soft against my skin. I should be able to create something—anything—but my mind is a blank slate, devoid of inspiration, or hope for that matter.

Frustrated, I throw the brush down, watching as it skitters across the floor. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I angrily blink them away.

I can’t afford to be weak, not here, not when there’s so much at stake.

God, what do these thoughts mean? Why do I keep feeling this colossal sense of doom, this sense that I’m in danger, surrounded by treachery, with a thousand knives all aimed at my back?

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