Page 105 of Deviant Illusions

That doesn’t give anyone the right to take my baby from me. Not only take, but make me think it never happened and lock me away, drugged up and confused, so I can’t even remember.

Maybe I could have been a good parent if I was left alone. If I was allowed to know if my child existed, I could have been better than what I was given. I wouldn’t have this inky pit of loss and grief without any reason for it.

I go into the bedroom, water still dripping down my body, and carelessly pull the dress out of the bag as the shower turns off. Kane soon turns up like a bad fucking smell behind me with a towel wrapped around his hips, with another in his hand that he uses to dry me.

He doesn’t speak to me or prepare me as he drops the towel then begins twisting my hair. I don’t need a mirror to know it’s the same hairstyle I forced him to learn after my sisters were no longer there to do it for me. He was the only person who patiently sat with me on his bed and braided my hair, so it formed a crown at the front of my head and the rest was left to flow down my back.

“It’s not as neat,” he whispers, almost apologetically, which is another way for him to trick me. “I’m out of practice.”

Why the fuck didn’t he talk to me instead of playing some mind game as revenge?

I think I hate him more when he’s kind. It just proves that he ruined everything and that I’ll never be able to have that kindness again. I will never trust him. Ican’ttrust him.

So I step to the side and dress myself, giving him my back as he does the same. The soft lace dress trails behind me, along with the sleeves that cover my hands. The long slit isn’t uncomfortable either because the seams overlap, covering everything I need it to considering I don’t have any panties.

Something thuds behind me and I turn, instantly fucking regretting it because Kane dressed faster than me in a black shirt and black slacks. The belt is black too but I stare at the buckle. A brass lion’s head with serpents weaving through its mane. It’s pretty and creepy at the same time.

“Put your shoes on.” He points at a pair of stilettos positioned by my feet on the floor.

The seven-inch, thin but sharp point doesn’t look steady without me in them, never mind once I have them on. It doesn’t have the platform at the front that would make it easier to walk. Even my mom would pick shoes that had a hidden platform under the toes, so I didn’t fall, and interacting with her is as comfortable as taking a cactus up the ass.

Kane holds his hand out again, but he doesn’t look at me this time, so I take it as I slip my foot into each stilt. The heel wobbles straight away and I have to walk on my toes to steady myself. Which the conniving bastard uses as an excuse to smoothly hook his arm through mine, keeping my hand hostage on his forearm, and guiding me out of the room. I’m not stupid. If I push him away, I’ll fall flat on my face, so it becomes an excuse for me too as I thread my fingers through his.

As we approach the staircase, he tightens his hold. I place my hand on the railing for support, but I’m abruptly lifted into his arms. I have to tuck my feet in to stop them hitting the handrailand he doesn’t look at the steps to make sure we don’t fall. Instead, he stares at me.

In another lifetime, this would be nice.

In another lifetime, we’d be together, and this could be a date night where the love of my life is sweet. We’d have spent our entire lives together but he’d still lift me into his arms to carry me.

In another lifetime, he wouldn’t be carrying me into a kitchen where his creepy grandmother stands in front of my parents. Her stick is directly in the middle of her feet with both hands propped on them. The mirrored masks that served our food are dragging in wooden caskets.

Kane slowly lowers me to my feet and keeps his shoulder pressed to mine. He doesn’t hold my hand or look at me though, which fucking hurts. It hurts that he can easily switch from hugging me in the shower and offering me empty promises, to ignoring me.

My parents aren’t holding hands either.

I want to ask them if this is why they were so cold. They couldn’t have had an influence in their lives that dictated how they could be with each other. I mean, it wasn’t exactly a secret that they cheated on each other or only had conversations when people were watching them. But they held hands earlier. The silly girl that they always knew I was is even dumber for wanting to witness it again. It could be some stupid childish dream of having loving parents that makes me wish their hands were still clasped together, but that’s not the real reason. No, I want to see them be human. I want the confusion of knowing they possess emotions that are buried so deep down that they hold hands out of fear. Then it might sink into my thick skull that this was their choice. All the pain, agony, and deception is who they are.

The masked helpers lift the caskets so they’re standing up and there’s a small window at the front. My eyes widen whenthey open each door, revealing thick metal spikes lining the door in a grid-like pattern.

Helene nods to the caskets. “Get in.”

At least I know that Kane’s method of torture is hereditary. Fucking freak.

My passiveness must be too, because my parents get into them without a complaint or murmur. The first sign of discomfort comes as the door closes and my dad winces. My mom is better at keeping a straight face as she stares through the window. But Helene turns like they’re not right in front of us and smiles warmly. “Very well. You look like the perfect couple. Come.”

I hold the back of Kane’s belt as he follows her. The heels are awful, but they don’t make a sound because I’m forced to walk on my toes to prevent myself from falling as she leads us into the lounge that has more furniture than when we were last in here.

Five leather armchairs are empty and the one with its back to us has a man seated in it. He has a suit on and a hat, but he doesn’t turn or stand when we enter. The smell wafting off him is strong. I can’t place it. It’s like bathroom cleaner mixed with something putrid, stinging my eyes as we pass him.

It’s not until I’m sitting beside the man that I notice what the fuck it is.

Just like the walls, he’s dead.

A stuffed person with glassy, unseeing eyes is sitting next to me.

Kane is slower than me at realizing, but I can’t get his attention when Helene has it.

“Would you like something to drink, sweet boy?” She stops at the bar, pours herself a glass of wine from the crystal decanter, then pauses for him to answer.

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