Page 37 of Deviant Illusions

No. It’s not in the air. It’s in my throat as I hum, “Eighty-nine.” I slowly rock, winding my arms tighter and tighter aroundmy body to create a cell within a cell. But this one will protect me. The cage of my body isn’t the same as concrete walls because this prison cell may actually protect me if I can just hold myself firmly enough.

And the buzzing slowly leaves my throat as I continue rocking. Sweat beads on my nape, dripping down my back and making my t-shirt cling to me as I pull my legs closer.

“Eighty-nine.”

It’s not ninety. It’s eighty-nine. Eighty-nine is safe.

But the buzzing gets louder, so loud that it prickles my skin as I flinch away from it.

“Eighty. Nine.”

I rock harder.

“Eighty-nine.”

My entire body quakes, my limbs already betraying me as the tremors rattle through my bones, dragging an ache with them.

Yet there’s no boots.

No metal scraping on metal as the door is unlocked.

No hands ripping the safety of my arms from me.

No hands at all.

Cracking open one eye, I look around the room I’m in. My chest rapidly moves in my periphery, and the first thing I notice is how open the space is. One wall is entirely made up of glass. The mezzanine floor above has a black railing that allows me to see everything. Even the kitchen is open. All open space without any concrete or a cot that I’ll fall through as soon as I sit on it.

My limbs slowly loosen as I sit there, doing a visual sweep of everything around me. It’s not due to comfort, I just can’t physically hold myself together anymore. It’s fucking exhausting, and even breathing is a chore.

One moment is all I need. A minute to remember what it was like to exist without pain. That’s not possible, because memoriesand life don’t work like that. They both conspire to fuck me over, to fucking rob me of any sanity or peace.

If I wasn’t so tired, I’d rage.

Instead, I drag myself up to stand as the buzzing restarts. My phone sits on the floor, vibrating across the dark tile, and I snatch it up. Hope is a bitch, another thing I don’t have control over, because I want it to be Delilah. Ineedit to be her, yet Lennox’s name stares at me instead. I answer before the call can end.

“Kane,” he says, and I know it’s Rowan. They sound the same, but my uncle has never called me anything other than little shadow since he came into our lives when I was six years old. “You failed, nephew.”

I don’t have the energy to temper myself and snap, “Fuck you, I don’t want any part of your fucking games.”

Pulling the phone away from my ear, I go to end the call when Rowan’s voice darkens, carrying sadistic joy despite the distance.

“I haven’t begun playing. Yet.” The screen flashes, a message coming through, and I put him on speaker because I’m clearly an idiot. “Follow the dot. If you fail again, there will be a punishment for your disobedience.”

He ends the call, and the three pulsingbeepsecho around the room as I watch the screen. I’ve become accustomed to new technology since rejoining society, but the tracker is weird as fuck. It shuts down access to anything else on my phone. There are two green dots moving towards each other. There are no street names, only coordinates. The fucked up cunt should have played computer games instead of playing with people’s lives.

Whoever is controlling my device sends a message that automatically pops up.

The jet is ready for you. Don’t run.

Little shadow.

Lennox.

His smoke and daggers bullshit is beginning to piss me off. There isn’t an option to respond and the message fades to show the same blinking dots. I don’t even have a reference of which country they’re in, but I put one foot in front of the other, knowing there isn’t a choice.

Lennox always uses the same hangar, and I decide to make the journey as unpredictable as possible. Swiping Niko’s keys, I go to the underground garage and his sports bike sits untouched beside my car. I make a deal with the shitty universe as I swing my leg over and start the ignition.

If I’m meant to die, I will. If I’m not, you’ll save me.

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