Page 7 of Deliria

I reach down to pick the brush up and place it back with the others, but my hand finds a crumpled piece of paper, and that makes me pause. It’s hidden, tucked away, far from prying eyes.

With my fingers, I ease it out and unravel it, seeing the message written in a delicate, spidery script that sends a chill running down my spine.

“You’re not safe here,” it reads. “Trust no one.”

I stare at the words, and an awful sense of foreboding washes over me, while a memory stirs of finding these before, back at the Penthouse, where Alex and I lived back in the city before whatever the fuck happened to me. But how did it get here, in this room that feels like it should be a sanctuary amidst the madness?

Is someone following me? Is someone stalking me?Is this Alex playing some sick sort of joke? No, he doesn’t have the humour for that. And besides, he wouldn’t be so cruel.

I stumble out of the studio, my mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion. The note burns against my skin from where I’ve tucked it away, serving as a tangible reminder of the danger that surrounds me.

But it’s also a beacon of hope, a sign that I’m not alone, that there’s at least one person out there who wants to help me, even if I have absolutely no clue who they are.

When I get back to my room, I lie on the bed. I can hear the sound of voices, people searching. They’re looking for me, aren’t they? For Alex’s poor, sick little wife.

I don’t have time to hide the note, so I clutch it in my hand, curling it up, concealing it in my fist as I shut my eyes, feigning sleep.

The door opens. Footsteps echo off the hard floor before they come to a stop right over me.

I can sense them. Multiple people. Someone leans down, and the waft of expensive aftershave tells me it’s my dear beloved husband.

“She’s asleep.”

It’s not him that speaks those words. It’s Vincent. It takes everything I have not to stiffen with the realisation that he is here, in my bedroom.

It was just a dream. Just a horrible, horrible dream.

“She wasn’t here ten minutes ago.” Alex states, his voice sharp and irritated.

“Does it matter?” Vincent replies. “She can’t go anywhere. We’ve made sure of it. She’s safe here. Secure.”

I want to feel reassured by those words, by his tone. I want to feel like this is all for my protection, my benefit. That I truly am sick and here to get better. But my head refuses to believe it, and my gut tells me that this is all a ruse. A façade.

Alex bends down, brushing the hair from my face. “If she is playing more games, then we need to be prepared for it.”

“I’ll speak to the doctor. I’m sure we can increase her medication if need be.” Vincent replies.

“I think that would be wise.”

My heart stops entirely at my husband’s words. They’re not spoken out of love. Out of concern. They’re spoken in a way that suggests my paranoia is absolutely justified.

The robe I’m wearing is suddenly opened. Cool air hits my clammy, exposed skin and how I don’t whimper, I don’t know.

They are here, both of them, in my room, watching me, seeing my naked body. I should wake up, I should open my eyes, I should dosomething… but I’m too petrified, too overcome with fear to do a damned thing but lay still and play dead, or as good as.

My dear, loving husband makes a comment I don’t catch and he scoops me up, carries me into the bathroom and starts washing me in a way that feels practised. He’s done this before then, he’s carried me and taken care of me like I’m an invalid. Only, there doesn’t feel like there’s all that much care here.

He scrubs at my skin, at my legs in particular. And then he’s reaching between them, making another comment, before he pulls something out, something that hurts.

I moan then, I yelp, before pretending to once more be unconscious. They stare at me, probably waiting for me to wake and when I don’t, they continue on, while I open my eyes just enough to spy what is in my husband’s hand.

It’s a twig, a stick. Small, barely a few inches long. But it wasinsideme.

“What the hell?” Alex mutters.

“I told you I saw her outside, in the woods.” Vincent states, like that was some sort of crime. “Guess we know what she was doing there now.”

“Why the fuck would she have done this?” Alex asks, “Like she’s what, fucking herself with logs now?” He sounds both confused and disgusted. Does he imagine I strolled into the woods and started riding the trees like some nympho desperate for a hit?

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