Page 17 of Deviant Illusions

Martin standsoutside of Delilah’s apartment building like a guard. I only needed him to sell the illusion that Delilah hadn’t been missing for months, and that it was all an episode. She’ll question everything then, and I’ll be able to begin her descent into madness all over again. There’s nothing worse than questioning reality, not trusting yourself, and as soon as her mind goes, we’ll be even. Mental torment requires a certain level of art that death or torture can’t provide. All the hours I’ve spent with my thoughts have allowed me to craft her own hell.

Martin shifts from foot to foot as I pull up beside him. I don’t unlock the doors, but roll the window down an inch as he approaches. He puts his filthy fucking fingerprints on the glass, and my fist tightens around the leather steering wheel.

“She was dazed when she woke up,” he says. I want to kill him. “But she hasn’t mentioned you.”

“You can fuck off now.” I go to roll up the window, uncaring that his fingers are still curled over the glass.

The dickhead increases his grip, spreading more of his nasty DNA on the darkened pane as he rushes out, “I did what youwanted. You’ll give me the file?” Turning my head to meet his fear-filled eyes, I stay silent. Hope mixes with his fright as he begs, “That’s what we agreed. I do this and you’ll give me everything so I can get rid of it.”

“Is that what you want?” I cock my head to the side and watch him. His “audition reel” to get Rowan’s attention was too planned—too enthusiastic—for it to have been coerced like he claimed. Sick fucking cunt. Not once has he asked about his poor dog since I took it away from him after I found the video of him abusing it.

He audibly gulps before lying through his fucking teeth. “Yeah, it was a mistake.”

I nod and pull the button up for the window. He quickly pulls his fingers free and stares through the glass. Or he’s looking at his own reflection. Who fucking knows when he clearly enjoys watching himself?

I wait until he walks away to get out and go into Delilah’s building. Well, my building since I purchased it. There could have been easier, more cost-effective ways of having free reign of her domain, but there wouldn’t be any fun in it. This way I can ruin her financially too. She mustn’t have seen the rent increase letter yet or I would have had an email with either her complaint or confirming that she’s going to move. I know her finances, so there’s nowhere else she would be able to afford. Such a shame for her. Maybe she’ll try to sell herself since it’s the only talent she has without access to a piano.

There’s no need for me to wear a mask, but I pull the balaclava over my head as I step through her front door. I’ve spent four months watching her sleep while I kept her sedated. Now I’m torn between wanting to hear her voice or to have that peace of knowing she’s in front of me. The moments I allowed her to be conscious weren’t filled with her voice, but she’d look at me and I finally had someone I could talk to.

A low light comes from her bedroom, and I hate the hope springing inside of me. I’ll never understand the hold she has over me or how she managed to make me come without a mask. Or why I can bear her touch. But I go to her—like fucking always—and stand at the threshold, watching the figure under the sheets. Gently widening the gap in the door, I remain rooted in place as she fully comes into view.

Her eyes are closed, and she lays on her side with her hand under her cheek. Delilah’s beauty isn’t muted in the low lights. It’s not something that can be diminished or tarnished. If her abhorrent actions haven’t managed to taint her physical appeal, then it will always be impossible for someone else to do it.

There’s a natural tilt to her lips, like she’s smiling, and I have equal parts joy and rage at the sight of it. It’s fucking insulting that she can sleep after everything that she’s done.

SOLITARY

KANE, 18 YEARS OLD

Everything is louder as I make my way back from the infirmary. The stitches in my back are pulling against my skin. I don’t know if the sweat coating my body is from exertion or my nervous system going crazy on alert.

The closer I get to my cell, the larger the lump in my throat grows. I can’t fucking do this for another day. The way out of this hell isn’t by keeping my head down, it’s death.

But the guard doesn’t turn to the corridor that leads to the cells. He continues walking ahead without so much as giving me a second glance.

“I’m in D block,” I say, weak as fuck.

I should be accustomed to being ignored, since it’s been the default of every CO since I was sentenced. Yet some stupid naïve part of me waits for a reaction as I follow him.

There isn’t one, not verbal or physical.

So I keep walking.

It’s better than being still. Not moving makes me think, thinking leads to gut-wrenching agony, and that mental anguish isn’t something I can take pills for.

The lights above our head flicker and the sounds of his heavy boots slamming against the linoleum echo in the empty space. It’s like a metronome, forcing my thoughts forward.

I still have a vague idea of home. Of one that doesn’t exist anymore. My parents and my brother would be there. They aren’t—weren’t—the greatest family members, but anything is better than nothing. They were dismissive and self-absorbed, and now I don’t even have that.

The gates buzz and I’m too dazed from the drugs to be able to work out where I’m going until I’m led into a small, singular cell without a window. The guard gestures to my hands. Lifting them up, he undoes the shackles, and my arms sink without the weight.

I’m still confused when he steps back and the heavy door clangs, sealing me in the dark.

Six Months Later…

“Eighty-three,” I sing. “Eighty-three.”

The springs of the bed creak in time with the song. It will change soon. Then it will be tomorrow, and it won’t be eighty-three, it will be eighty-four.

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