Page 15 of Deviant Illusions

The sheets rustle behind me and I force myself to stand before he touches me. The tips of his fingers brush my lower back as he groans, “Where are you going?”

“To find your master, you worthless bitch,” I grit, pushing my feet into my shoes.

I don’t know what’s worse, the fact he keeps fucking with my life or that he’s dressed me in this shitty uniform. The smell clings to me, and I’ll have to scrub my skin raw to get the heavy grease and smoke off me.

There aren’t any personal details in view as I walk out of Martin’s apartment. No photos or junk mail. It’s like a show home. I make sure I slam the door. The lock doesn’t latch, and it swings back from the force, leaving a small gap.

Even the hallway is staged, with planters in the corners. None of his neighbors check what the noise was, and I have no bearings to be able to plan what to do. I half expect the new, twisted version of Kane to be lurking around the corner as I push into the stairwell. But there’s nothing other than an empty space and concrete steps.

My phone vibrates in my hand as I run down the stairs. Carol’s name flashes on the screen, and I answer with recognition. Her voice is the same, proving I was fucking right, as she asks, “Can you pick up a shift today? Someone has called in and we’ll be short for the lunch rush.”

“I’m busy,” I rush out, opposite to the person who always picked up whatever shit she needed me to.

I slow and stare at the bland wall as the thought comes to me. She was in on it. They all are. Every single fucking person I’ve encountered helped Kane. They wouldn’t just accept that I disappeared for months, and now, they’re all facilitating his mindfuck. Anger warms me and I sound more like myself as I say, “Actually, Carol, go fuck yourself.”

Ending the call, I take a controlled breath and walk at a moderate pace. I’m not going to let him see me run or be afraid. If anything, I’m going to play his game and fucking ruin him.

Stepone of ruining Kane’s plans involves me having to go along with whatever he has orchestrated. He’ll be watching, the little fucking freak, and this time he’s going to be the one who’s ignorant.

“Delilah,” the doctor calls as he opens his door. “You can come in now.”

I definitely don’t know Dr. Raymond. He’s an older man, clean shaven, and he smells of soap as I follow him into his office. The clean scent helps cut through some of the lingering grease that’s sticking to my hair. Even after three showers and a change of clothes, I can still smell it.

The doctor doesn’t sit behind his desk near the wall. Instead, he leads me to sit on a sofa opposite his armchair. The lounge-style décor probably helps people relax. But they’re normal people with real concerns. Not people being manipulated and lied to.

He picks up a notepad, a pen, and gestures to the coffee table between us. “Help yourself to a drink.”

Yeah fucking right. It’s probably drugged.

“I’m fine,” I say evenly to prevent him noticing that I know he’s a lying fucking prick.

There’s no coaxing required as he spews his bullshit.

“How have you found the new routine? Has it helped with your dreams at all?”

“My dreams?”

I’ve never told anyone about them before, so that can’t be something that Kane would know.

The doctor nods and says, “Yes, your dreams. You mentioned that they can be quite vivid, so vivid that you wake up unsureif they actually happened or not.” A crease forms between his brows and he slowly leans forward, assessing me. The notepad and pen are set aside, like I’m an animal or an alien that requires thorough examination. “Have you been taking your medication, Delilah?”

“Yes,” I lie. I don’t need to be medicated when I know he’s full of shit. It was the same with my parents and their team of doctors. They’d fuck with my head, pump me with enough chemicals that I couldn’t remember what day of the week it was, and I’d become a zombie. I couldn’t feel anything. Not pain or happiness. Only numbness for months at a time.

I left their abusive household, and I won’t repeat the mistake of thinking anyone has my best interest in mind.

Dr. Raymond’s assessment doesn’t end, but he picks up his notepad and sits back against the sofa. I bet he’s waiting for me to spill everything about Kane so he can run back to him like a good little lapdog, eager for a belly rub. There was never a time that Kane had an ego. He didn’t care about being powerful or seen as more intelligent than other people. Now, he’s morphed and become like Asher.

“Something did happen,” I say slowly, watching the fake doctor’s face. He’s not excited at the prospect of having information for his puppet master and maintains the façade of professional care.

“Was it another one of your dreams?” he asks, and I stay silent. I need him to tell me everything he’s been told, and my father’s teachings come back.

Stay silent, let them spill their secrets, and when they’ve trapped themselves, that’s when you tighten your hand around their neck.

It works, like always, and he offers his suggestions in an attempt to get me to talk. “Were they about your family, or was it something new this time?”

“Something new,” I offer, and lean back against the cushions. “There was a weird creep in a mask following me.”

He makes a note in his little notepad and asks, “And you knew it was a dream?”

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