Page 68 of Deliria

I know she’s technically his wife and all, but it still feels wrong to see her there, to know that she is his.

But we did have a plan.

Despite the state she’s in now, despite the fact she has no idea about it anymore, me and her, we made an agreement. As much as it turns my stomach, I have to stick to it. I have to do what is necessary, and I hope that Scarlett is strong enough to survive.

Scarlett

It’s morning. Breakfast.

I’m sitting beside Alex, eating as quietly as I can while he reads some report on his phone. I don’t know where Vincent and Irene are, but I was more than a little relieved to find the dining room empty when we entered.

My head feels strange. My thoughts are muted. It’s as if I have no more words to form, as if I’ve used them all up, spent them all. I’m an empty paint pot now, with nothing but a few smears hinting at what my contents used to be.

I let out a low sigh, and even that feels lacking.

I don’t know what the fuck happened yesterday, but I know enough to realise it was bad. Whatever Alex did to me, it clearly fucked me up big time. My feet are cut up, my limbs ache like I’ve run a marathon and then some. I can’t tell if any of the bruises on my skin are new or not, but it makes me feel physically sick just thinking about it.

I have to get out of this place.

My fork freezes over my plate. The slice of fruit shakes in my hand. Even the sharp taste of a grapefruit is reduced to a bland nothingness. My appetite has vanished, replaced by a gnawing dread that sits heavy in the pit of my stomach.

Beside me, Alex mutters something under his breath.

He’s angry and though he isn’t looking at me, I know his fury is directed my way. I can feel it, like the pricking of a thousand needles against my skin.

I found another note. It was in my hand, curled into my fist when I woke up. The words scrawled there in a furious line that keeps repeating in my head.

‘You crazy bitch. Do you want to die? Stop letting them win so easily.’

Some stupid part of me wanted to show Alex, to ask him what it might mean, but my gut told me that would be just as reckless as whatever silly crime ‘Past Scarlett’ apparently committed. So instead, I screwed it up, slipped it into the fold of my pillowcase, intent on storing that with the other notes when it’s safe to do so.

I want to run, to flee this room, this house, this life.

But where would I go? I’m trapped, a prisoner on this damned island, just as my husband intended me to be.

The sudden scrape of Alex’s chair against the floor makes me jump. He stands, towering over me, his eyes cold and hard. “You think you can keep defying me?” he growls, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine.

“What?” I stammer, my heart pounding in my chest. “Alex, I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Scarlett,” he snarls, slamming his hands down on the table. The plates rattle, and I flinch, my breath catching in my throat. “You know exactly what you did. You disobeyed me. You went outside, put yourself in danger again, dancing like a fucking idiot in a see-through nightdress like you’re some sort of whore and not my wife…”

“Alex, please,” I whisper, tears welling up in my eyes. “I don’t remember. I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry?—”

“Sorry?” he laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. “You’re not sorry, Scarlett. But you will be.”

Before I can react, he grabs me by the arm, hauling me to my feet. I cry out in pain as his fingers dig into my flesh, leaving bruises that I know will turn into purple welts later. He drags me around the table, his grip unyielding, and I stumble after him, my heart pounding with fear.

“Alex, please,” I beg, my voice shaking. “You’re hurting me.”

He ignores my pleas, his face a mask of cold fury. He shoves me against the dining table, the edge digging into my hips. I try to push him away, but he holds me firmly in place, his hands like vice grips on my shoulders.

“You need to learn your place, Scarlett,” he growls, his breath hot on my face. “You’re my wife. How do you think it feels to have to deal with your shit day in day out?”

I shake my head, unable to form a reply. I know I’m exhausting, I know I’m hard work, but it’s not exactly my fault, is it? My brain isn’t working properly, my memory is fucked. I can no more be held responsible for my actions than a goldfish can for swimming around and around its own tank.

Tears stream down my cheeks as I shake my head, trying to twist out of his grip. “Alex, no—please don’t?—”

But my words are cut off as he forces my head down, slamming it onto the hard wooden surface of the table. Pain explodes in my skull, and stars dance before my eyes. I’m dazed, my thoughts scattered, and in that moment of weakness, he grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back.

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