Page 46 of Psyop Kings

No boyfriend calls his womanlittlegirl.

This time when he storms off, I don’t stop him. I listen for his footsteps as they fade away down a hallway and then the sound of a door closing. As soon as I know he’s gone, I begin my search for a bedroom where I might find some clothes.

I pass a couple of immaculate, seemingly untouched guest rooms, the closed door to what must be his office, a powder room, and then come to an enormous bedroom with a whole wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that give a stunning view of the mountains.

The bedroom has a king-sized bed with a couch at the foot of it. In front of the couch is a small coffee table and a long, deep red ottoman that appears to be used as another area for seating. Across the room is a lit fireplace with two armchairs and matching ottomans. An intricately detailed rug sits in front of the fireplace.

Why does someone need so many sitting areas in their bedroom?

On my way to what I hope is his closet, I see a vanity with a mirror and a chair. I stop when I realize my things are on the vanity top. Makeup, hairbrush, jewelry.

I stare at it all, an oily feeling settling in my gut.

Why is my stuff here?

It’s then I see a framed picture. I swallow down the unease rising in my throat and force myself to pick it up.

No way.

I stare at the picture in confusion. It’s a picture of a couple on the beach. She’s in a tiny red bikini and wears a massive floppy hat. He’s in a pair of black board shorts. They embrace with familiarity and love, her legs hooked around his waist and arms encircling his neck. His hands are on her ass, holding her to him.

On her hip is a small birthmark.

I know that tiny section of discolored skin because I always hated it growing up.

The woman is me.

And the strong, flexed arms that are holding me up are colored in ink. The same artful tattoos I’ve seen earlier on Caius.

My stomach clenches and I feel dizzy.

I carefully inspect the picture, looking for anything to tell me it’s a Photoshopped fake. Nothing. It all seems so real. The only hope I have is that I can’t see their faces that are hidden behind her hat.

But what if itisus?

What if I really did somehow hurt my head and they’re trying to get me to remember?

For the first time since all this began, I’m starting to question reality.

I don’t know what’s happening.

And I definitely don’t know what to do about it.

Romy

I’m almost certain I know what I’ll find when I open the closet door.

My expectations are met when I see rows of my familiar clothes lining one side of the enormous closet. The other side is nothing but neatly hung masculine suits and crisply ironed dress shirts. I recognize all my shoes, organized just the way I like them.

A shiver quakes through me. It’s warm in this house, but I’m chilled to the bone about my situation. Everything looks right, except it feels so wrong.

I find a dresser with drawers filled with my bras, socks, and underwear and then grab my baggy designer jeans and a comfy sweater. Shakily, I make my way into the adjoined bathroom to change. Once I have the door locked and set my clothes down on the counter, I recognize my toothbrush sitting in a holder next to another one.

That one’s his.

The intimacy of having our toothbrushes next to each other is too much. I snatch my toothbrush up and move it to the other side of the sink. It’s stupid and petty, but it makes me feel better.

After I dress, I conveniently find my hairbrush in a drawer. I brush out the tangles and put on a headband to keep my messy hair out of my face. In the same drawer, I find a hairdryer and straightener, neither of which I’m going to use.

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