Page 91 of Deviant Illusions

It doesn’t look like an organ, and my eyes widen when she warmly smiles at it. “Hello, my shadow.”

She turns it then holds it out to me so I can see the face of a small baby. Its arms are the width of two of my fingers. It lays against the curved edge of the orb with its cheek resting on its shoulder.

A baby. A baby in a fucking jar.

“There is always a stronger part of us that wins. I display my weakness as proof that it can be overcome. But you, sweet boy, weren’t the one to overcome yours. Your wife took matters into her own hands and ruined what I created.”

I move the fuck away from her and wish my mother was here. My mom was normal. She had moments of showing warmth and she would always check my homework. My dad was normal too, almost boringly so. He wouldn’t have been involved withsomething like this. He didn’t even like Halloween because of the scary movies and people wearing masks, for fuck’s sake. For the first time in my life, there’s an urge to cry out to my parents. I didn’t do it when Asher was a dick, not when I was charged and later sentenced for a crime I didn’t fucking commit, not when the comfort of my own body was stripped from me. But now, as I watch Helene’s boney fingers fondle the orb, that urge is overbearing.

TRICK OR TREAT

KANE, 17 YEARS OLD

“Knock, knock,” Delilah says as she walks into my room without giving me time to respond.

“You’re supposed to wait for me to say who’s there.”

She smiles up at me and I force myself to look at her face instead of the way her tits look in the creepy Victorian dress she’s wearing, or how the skirt puffs out and I know I’ll be able to see the curve of her ass when she turns around.

There are black lines from the corners of her lips going down to her chin and she’s done her makeup to make her eyes look even bigger, but the part on her cheek has cracks through it. I can’t work out who she’s dressed as, so I ask, “Which movie are you from?”

She lifts her arm, showing black strings that are glued to her skin like they’re stuck in, but the ends are jagged like they’ve been torn in half. “A little movie called life. I’m a broken puppet that freed myself.” Holding her arm out flat to show me the bruise she’s created on her inner bicep, she smiles wider. “Look, I fought my way out.”

It looks real. But so does her makeup, and she’s used liquid latex to make the strings look like they’re part of her. She’ll be pissed if I smudge them, so I don’t allow my thumb to touch her skin as I trace the outside of the finger marks. My voice lowers as a door slams. “You’re getting better at doing them, pretty girl. They look real.”

Her hair is all fucked up too, held in two pigtails at each side of her head. She grabs the end of a few strands then runs her fingers up them, bunching them so they’re wilder. “What’s real in life?”

The way I feel about you.

I want to scream it and tell her to be mine all the time, but she’ll be going to college soon and whatever this is between us needs to end.

Asher walks into my room and he almost looks disappointed when he stares at the gap between me and his girlfriend. Delilah stiffens, so they must be in another argument, but she doesn’t stop him hooking his arm over her shoulders and pulling her into his side.

For once, he’s dressed the same as me. That’s weird as fuck. I don’t think he even wears the same color socks as me, but he looks me up and down as I do the same to him. Both of us are in navy boiler suits, the top few buttons are undone, and we have a black t-shirt on underneath.

“Well done, reflection,” he says. “I have the last part of our costumes.”

He’s not being a dick as he pulls out two clown masks. They’re not the same as the ones in the movie Delilah and I watched. These are cleaner, simpler, whereas that one had blood smeared up the sides. The weirdest thing of all is the fact that Asher doesn’t make some asshole comment or act like I’m his servant.

He waits for me to fit it in place, and does the same with his, then laughs. “Let’s go scare Dad. He always holds his hand over his heart like he’s pledging allegiance.”

I can’t remember the last time I heard my brother laugh normally. It’s usually accompanied by some scheme where he ruins someone’s life. Yet this is lighthearted, and I follow him out, turning off all the lights as I go.

All three of us move silently down the stairs and my dad pauses the news as the lights are slowly turned off, one by one.

“Dora?” he calls out.

None of us answer.

“Kids?”

We stop beside the lounge, watching his head twist, then Asher lets go of Delilah to grab my arm. He pulls me with him as he jumps forward and my dad startles. As always, he flattens his hand on his chest and Asher’s laugh is louder. Innocent.

“I hate this holiday,” my dad groans and walks over to us. He smiles at Delilah, then looks at Asher then me. “I don’t think you’ve dressed the same since you were babies. It’s nice to see you getting along.”

Asher hooks his arm around my neck, dragging me closer, as he puffs his chest out. “Me and my reflection against the world.” He looks around, asking, “Where’s Mom?”

“She has a migraine,” Dad says too quickly. “Enjoy the party, and Delilah, please tell your parents that I’m sorry to miss it.”

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