Page 4 of Devious Delusions

The hospital doors are abruptly pushed open during my screaming and an older man places his hand on Asher’s chest, moving him back a step. The scrubs show he’s a doctor, and he speaks in a soothing tone as I glare at the motherfucker behind him. It could be something I’ve made up again, like the dreams, and I never really left the hospital. That’s what happened and Asher isn’t in front of me.

“Delilah, you’re safe. Your husband hasn’t done anything.”

Why the fuck is he calling a spirit my husband? My limbs are still weighed down, making it difficult to escape, and my glare lessens as I watch the doctor’s hand touching Asher’s chest. You can’t touch hallucinations. But he’s touching him. The edges of the doctor’s fingers are pushing Asher’s t-shirt closer to his skin. He’s real.

My eyes close so tightly that the darkness behind my eyelids blurs as I shake and curse.

“It’s not true. It’s not fucking true. I was there. He died.”

Harsh fingers wrap around my wrist. They pull as I lash out. My limbs are sluggish, but it doesn’t deter me until Asher grips my shoulders and pushes me into the bed. Something scratches my arm—a familiar sting of a needle—and I fight harder. I won’t go back to that institution, not again.

“Stop doing this to yourself,” he hisses as his fingers dig into my bones.

More weight is added to the inside of my body, sinking my mind and dragging the sounds further away from my ears. The bed doesn’t just cushion me. It takes away my senses, and the last thing I have sentience of is the harsh hands pushing against me.

2

DELILAH

“Tell me again,” I demand as I sit myself up.

Asher doesn’t even hesitate as he lowers to sit on the edge of my hospital bed. His mouth opens and he traces the scar on his hand as he repeats the same information he’s been telling me in the days since I woke.

“We’re married,” he says to the scar before he tilts his head and looks at me with his lips in a flat line. There are small creases in the corner of his eyes. The last time I was in front of him, he was laid in a silk-cushioned casket wearing a suit. Now, he’s sitting in front of me in a dark t-shirt and jeans. Normal. That’s the only thing that springs to mind, that he is normal. Other than the sadness and worry in his eyes, that’s new.

I shake my head and keep my voice low, so the doctor doesn’t hear outside of the doors. “No, how are you alive?”

He turns to face me fully and the ring on his finger is what my eyes choose to focus on as he lifts his hand to cup my cheek. The Asher I remember was not gentle—he wasn’t kind, or caring. Especially when we were alone and I’d done something he found embarrassing. But this one is. This one doesn’t have the arrogance that initially drew me to him. This Asher is kind andpatient. He doesn’t force me to do anything or reap satisfaction from my misery.

His eyes are muted as he softly whispers, “I have always been alive.” He runs his fingers through his hair and blows out a long breath that slightly puffs his cheeks out. It’s the same tell he had when he was alive. The one that would buy him time before a difficult conversation.

“You struggled after the fire,” he says, before drawing in a breath. “You wouldn’t accept that he was dead. That you caused it?—”

“I didn’t,” I weakly defend.

Kane was alive. He ran to me, I remember it. He wrapped his arms around me and made sure I was safe. But Asher is in front of me. Asher, who should be dead. He should be dust, but his palm is warm as he presses it deeper against my cheek.

“It’s okay, we’ve gotten past it.”

I pinch my thigh, feeling the dull ache that tells me this is real. The bruise is already purple, and it covers my entire hip from where I fell near the cliff edge. The only time Asher has left me alone is when I went to the bathroom, but he was waiting for me. The hospital is too silent now that the monitor isn’t attached to me. There’s no beep to show I’m alive and I freeze as he stretches his thumb out. It’s not a violent touch. He strokes my brow. In the exact same way he always did.

But his eyes are different.

Everything is.

So, I stick to the facts to find a tether in my memories to prove I know what happened.

“You hated Kane,” I say.

He shakes his head, his eyelids dropping as he continues tracing my brow. It takes too long for him to speak, and when he does, his jaw tics.

“He’s my twin—” He takes a deep breath. “—wasmy twin. I didn’t hate him, Delilah, I couldn’thate him when he was part of me, and I was part of him. We were kids. Some of us do stupid shit because we’re not mature, but growing up changes that perspective and petty sibling rivalry doesn’t mean anything. Not anymore and not even then. It was just childish.”

I can’t marry up the person I know, my last memory of Asher, with the man in front of me. I lean away from his hand as I ask, “Do you even remember what you did?” He just stares at me, so I add, “This might be the truth to you. You might be alive, but you are not a loving husband. Whatever this is, a fucked up dream or some psychosis I’m experiencing, doesn’t mean shit.”

The last time we were together, he wasn’t a loving husband. He was a dickhead, screaming at me. Then he died. I hated him in those final moments, but I mourned him. I grieved the loss of both brothers. They were gone after a childhood of only ever having them and I was alone. I lost them both and as much as I hated Asher in the lead up to his death, I still missed him because there’s a familiar comfort in knowing someone since childhood. Even when they possess hands that are only ever capable of harming you.

My eyes close and I know it was real. His eyelashes were burnt, and the smell was putridly sweet. Everything that happened around that time is foggy, but I can clearly remember that Kane wasn’t allowed at the service until everyone left. The prison guards escorted him to the gravesite in chains, each step clinking, and he looked so broken as he mechanically placed a handful of dirt on his brother’s already-filled grave.

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