Page 81 of Devious Delusions

“You are fucking mine. There is no other choice for you. If you touch him again, I’ll kill him. If you allow him to touch you, I’ll make you watch.”

The dressing on his forearm crinkles beneath his sleeve and I stare at it as I ask, “How did you get hurt?”

His fingers flex around my neck and he lets out a harsh breath. “Because I was focused on you.”

There’s a dull click and I panic, thinking it’s the door. I try to push him off me, but there are no steps and I look up to see how hard he’s clenching his jaw. The tension extends beyond his mask and his voice is stilted as though he’s fighting himself not to give me the warning.

“Don’t trust him.”

He lets me go, turns with his shoulders more tense, and his voice is strange. It’s deeper and weighted as he lifts a rose out of the arrangement.

“Will you let him play with what’s mine, koukla mou?”

The threat of what he’ll do isn’t real. It’s just a way for him to control my actions and I press against his insecurity.

“I’m his before I would ever be yours.”

The long green stem is easily plucked from the floral foam, and he forms a claw with his fingers to hold the large bud as he turns back to me and tuts. “No thorns.”

The all black outfit against the soft cream petals softens the image of Ghost walking towards me. He delicately holds the roseand he’s careful not to crush the petal as he uses two fingers to hold the stem and unwraps his fingers from the flower. I can’t think of a way he can turn it into a weapon, but he holds it up between our faces and slowly swirls it.

“This is your marriage,” he muses. “From the outside it’s perfect, it’s beautiful and romantic.” My throat turns dry as he looks past the rose to me. “But on the inside, it’s harboring something terrifying.”

He stares at me as he plucks each petal. The oils slick the pads of his latex-covered fingers before he carelessly drops them on the floor. He works in order from the outside of the rose and deconstructs each layer of the large flower until only the ugly center is left covered by two loosely wrapped petals. They lay on top of the other and he uses the tip of his forefinger to lift one of the petals, revealing a beetle.

“That,” he pushes the bald rose closer to me, “is what your marriage really is.”

He drops the stem and stretches to the side to take another. I just stare at the floor to make sure the bug stays where the fuck it is. I don’t need beetles to add to the shit in my life. I already have one pest, who is currently sharing his gardening knowledge for some fucking reason.

“You should audition for a play,” I say. He looks at me instead of the rose and I add, “All your theatrics might be useful there. But you might have to show the world your ugly ass face.”

The insult doesn’t make him bristle. He laughs in my face. The force of it shakes his chest and condescension drips from what should be a joyous sound. It slows as he shakes his head and coos, “Oh, koukla mou, you’ve seen my face and every mask I have. You’ve never complained.” He sighs and gestures to the flower arrangement. “But that was before you let the disease back into your life.”

“What do you mean?” I step forward despite his clear mental issues when he doesn’t answer me, and he takes a matte black lighter from his pocket. The cap clicks as he flicks it, then runs his thumb against the grinding wheel. Butane taints the air as the spark licks the wick and the flame ignites in a bulbous blob before tapering off at the top.

“Do you know the best way to get rid of the disease?” he asks while still ignoring my question.

“You saidbackin my life, what does that mean?”

We’re having different conversations, and he continues his as he slowly brings the flame to the rose head.

“You burn it,” he says softly, and the petals begin to wilt as he twirls the stem between his thumb and forefinger. The water it has managed to soak up prevents it from being engulfed in flames and I watch the full, cream petals die. The edges curl over as though they’re trying to protect themselves, but the freak continues moving it around the flame until it’s destroyed.

He looks up and opens his fingers with the lighter still aflame in the other hand. The stem hits the floor between our feet, and I watch the flame dance to prevent my chin from dropping. His lips settle into a smirk as he says, “But you know all about fires, don’t you, koukla mou?”

His boot crushes the already destroyed flowers as he takes a step forward and brings the lighter to my face. The flame dances with the movement and I stretch my neck back as I stare at the mesh eyeholes.

“Answer me,” I demand.

The heat ghosts over my jawline but it doesn’t touch. The burning butane makes me grimace and he caps the lighter as he sighs. The top is warm and warps his glove as he holds it in his palm. I don’t know why I’m staring at it, but I can’t look away as the latex melts in holes around the top of the lighter cap and he closes his fingers around it.

My head snaps up as he says, “You left him once, do it again.” He takes another step closer and holds my chin with his knuckles and thumb. His whisper is slow, and he traces my bottom lip. “Ask me to kiss you again.”

Shaking my head, I force my mouth to remain closed. It’s not the worst thing I’ve done considering I’ve given my attention to someone outside of my marriage before he ever touched me.

He takes another step forward and holds my hip. The warmed metal of the lighter casing is comforting against my skin as he says, “Ask. I’ll give it to you this time.”

I pull my head back from his hand and he doesn’t attempt to force me, as I lie, “I don’t know you and I never did. You’re not real, we were never anything, and if you don’t leave, I’ll go to the police.”

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