Page 39 of Deviant Illusions

“You better be taking a fucking piss.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. The unconscious man’s belt has been undone too, revealing two inches of skin between where the other guard has pulled his shirt up. It’s there in my periphery and my teeth are going to turn to dust to stop the bile coming up. “Fucking move. Now!”

Birds squawk in protest of me disturbing their peace within the trees and the flap of their wings is deafening. But it’s not enough to compete with the internal roar. They look at each other again, and the one zipping back the fuck up shrugs. Both of them grab the man’s arms and legs as I stay back with the woman in my arms.

Dipping my head, I whisper into her ear, “I don’t know what the fuck you did, but you’ve fucked up.”

She doesn’t respond, obviously.

Her arm flops out and there’s blood all over her from a wound on her head. They tend to look worse than they are, so she’ll be fine for the meeting Rowan requires. My focus remains on the man being dragged through the trees. I keep track of the two guards’ hands to make sure their wandering, filthy fucking fingers don’t go anywhere they shouldn’t as we walk to the car waiting for us. Leaves and twigs snap under our feet and I’m sure I’m not even blinking. The silvery moonlight is shadowed by the overhanging branches, but I can make out the man’s features as we get to the sparser trees.

Mr. Charles has aged since our brief interaction, and he’s definitely a dickhead by his association to Rowan alone. There’s nothing to justify the guards inflicting that special brand of humiliation on him though.

Thankfully, they don’t attempt to rape him again, which is enough to keep the memories at bay as we reach the other side of the road and get into the waiting truck. They dump the man into the back seat then climb into the front, uncaring about my evident disgust reflected in the dark windows. I gently lay the woman beside Mr. Charles before I get in and push them away from me so there’s no risk of them touching me. It only makes them look more like a couple as her head rests on his chest, and I lift his arm to drape it around her.

They slide against the seat as we peel away, and there’s a faint mumble from the passenger seat in front of me. My companions haven’t removed their masks, as they communicate in taps. The driver taps against the steering wheel in an odd combination that doesn’t resemble Morse code. The night sky engulfs us as they stick to the small patch of dirt road cutting through the trees, drawing attention to the illuminated dash. They’re going to get us caught once we rejoin normal traffic due to the erratic speed.

“Calm the fuck down. We’ll get pulled over,” I warn.

The one in the passenger seat slowly turns his head and looks at me head-on. Not being able to see his features makes it easier to breathe, because in this moment he’s not a person or real. He’s just a thing, something that exists and can be controlled. An object.

My own mask does the same to me.

I’m not Kane, or Asher’s reflection. I’m someone without any history or future. A fucking void that can do anything I want without fear or memories holding me back. Anonymity brings a certain amount of freedom with it. There aren’t any shackles ofhumiliation or my mind wandering to what the person looking at me can see whenI’mhidden. In a way, it allows me to hide from myself.

That’s what helps me when the passenger seat creaks and the fucker attempts to push his seat into my legs. Stiffening my muscles, I plant my feet and lift up into a squat until my crown brushes the top of the car. The driver speeds up, taking a turn that wasn’t fucking planned.

I’m flung forward from the force of him slamming on the brakes and my neck awkwardly bends. The two bodies beside me slam into the driver’s seat, tangling together in the small space between the seats.

My breathing shallows as a syringe rolls over the dash, and I quickly hook my arm around the man’s throat in front of me. He’s not disorientated from our sudden stop as he digs his fingers into my forearm. The driver swings back with one hand as he reaches for the syringe. I pull my head away in time, but the restricted space doesn’t allow any escape. His gloved fist knocks into the side of the mask. The sound echoes as I cock my arm back and my knuckles skim the headrest before they land against his cheek. Yet the mask doesn’t crack as pain radiates through my fucking hand.

Whatever material they’re made out of protects him and I’ll only end up doing more damage to myself. So I don’t block his shots, and grab his wrist. His fist thuds against the outside of my mask as I tighten my arm against the motherfucker’s throat. My shoulder burns from how tightly I’m pressing against the passenger’s windpipe and his fingers weakly claw at my forearm. Tightening as much as I’m able to, I push my fingers through the metal supports of the headrest so there’s no gap.

The driver forces his seat back like there aren’t two bodies slumped behind him, trapping them as the metallicthudof Mr. Charles’ head slamming into the door panel fills the truck.

I tighten my hold on the driver’s wrist as he aims the sharp point of the needle at me. My knees are pressed into the back of the passenger seat, and I push the length of my body to the door to evade him. The seat traps me in place and my hold on his wrist only drags the cunt with me.

The passenger slowly slumps under my forearm, giving me a boost of adrenaline. These rapist pieces of shit won’t stop at drugging me and I fucking refuse to be that person again. A roar builds in my chest as the truck becomes too small. The metal walls close in and morph into concrete. I can’t fucking see or breathe. The mask fucks with my senses and I lash out.

The truck rocks and my scalp overheats. Everything matches the heat roaring through my body. The mask is choking me, preventing my air and dragging me back into that concrete fucking cell. I swing wildly, my elbows hitting off things that shouldn’t be there. It’s too soft to be concrete and too hard to be the shitty piece of foam I have to sleep on. A hand brushes my leg, and it all shuts off. The only thing I have is survival. I scream.

My agony is stuck inside the mask, and it engulfs me, seeping through my flesh and bone to be amplified. Just like it was then, I’m the only person who hears it. Who feels it. My t-shirt sticks to my skin. Everything does. Between lashing out, fighting for survival, I swipe at my body to get it off.

My gloved fingers hit another hand and I roughly push it away from me as I press my body to the wall beside me. I claw at the bottom of the mask and my knuckles hit something hard as my vision darkens. Black orbs mix with the blurred edges, and I scream louder as the wall splits.

Hands.

Are.

On.

Me.

They grip my arms, and I reach out, grabbing anything I can find as my screams rattle my skull.

“STOP! Get the fuck off!”

No.

No.

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