Page 14 of Beautiful Delusions

"I can't...I need..." The quickening rise and fall of my chest is detrimental to the tightening inside. I can’t draw a full breath, yet am breathing too fast at the same time. There’s not enough air, not enough time.

Vaguely, Kyan tells everyone else to leave, followed by scraping chairs and a flurry of movement. Not around me, though. Those shadows cling close, sneering in my face, anticipating my downfall. My eyes are hooded again but not from exhaustion. This is much worse.

“Sophia,” my name is called from far away, the sound muffled as if I'm underwater. My arms are steadied by gentle hands, keeping me from collapsing to the ground. Blinking rapidly, I try to focus on the source of the voice–and then I see them. Green eyes, like a beacon in the darkness, calling me home. But nothing is ever that easy.

“Was I not enough for you last night?” I whimper, my question surprising even myself. It comes from a place of vulnerability, raw and exposed. Swallowing back the rising tears that accompany my words, I rephrase. “Why are you punishingme?” But it's too late, the tears come anyway. Thick streams running down my cheeks, staining my band t-shirt.

“I’m not punishing you, Feisty One,” Lucas speaks softly, his touch gentle as he tucks a strand of blue hair behind my ear. His words become muffled, drowned out by the dark voices in my mind.

Liar. He’s using you because you’re a slut. He wants you confused, easier to take advantage that way. A mindless sex doll for his brother fetish. You’re only good for one thing.The voices taunt me mercilessly, their venomous words echoing in my head. Jazzie tries to break through, but it’s no use. She isn’t loud sometimes.

“Sophia? Did you hear what I said?” Lucas' concerned frown comes back into view as I fade in and out of consciousness. In a final attempt to hold onto reality, I lift my head–but it's too heavy. Strong arms catch me before I hit the ground and the darkness takes over completely.

Three Years Ago.

Fire dances. Flame intertwines. The warmth casts a glow on my skin, the hideous scar spanning my left arm shunned by the shadows. Pain doesn't exist here. My manufactured heaven. The floor beneath my bare feet isn't that of my cell, but a pale marble reflecting the light dancing from the hearth. I always saw myself as a simple girl of simplemeans. It's ironic the world I've created for escape should drip in splendor. Stone walls adorned in rich, velvety tapestries of cerulean and gold, high ceilings lost to darkness above. But it feels homely, welcoming. A stark contrast to my cold, hostile confinement.

I walk over to a grand mahogany table adorned with food and drink. There are meats cooked to perfection, fruits glistening with dew, rich pastries, and cakes dripping with sweet syrup. A banquet fit for royalty. Guided by an unrestrained hunger brought on by countless days of prison grub, I reach out for an apple.

"Sophia," a voice calls out softly. It's strong yet soothing. Turning, I find her standing at the threshold of an enormous window overlooking an expanse of star-studded night sky. A female figure stands with the posture of confidence. Someone who knows exactly who they are and what they're about. Silver highlights trickle through her dark hair, a shade lighter than black. Hazel eyes track me, a sense of familiarity in her gaze. I've dreamt of her before. Many times.

"You're safe here," she assures me with a tender smile. I never know which version of her I'm going to get, but she flawlessly adapts to her surroundings. Today, she appears radiant in a silken robe which billows in the unseen breeze. Safe? The word echoes around my head. Words are so easy to say, but safety isn't something I've been able to feel for a very long time.

"Sophia!" my name is called again, but not from this world. I whimper, not ready to go back when a sudden weight strikes my face. My head whips to the side, tears forming in my eyes as the extravagant room leaks away. I don't know what I'm more upset about; the football which just landed a full-bodied blow to my face, or the fact my fantasy has been broken before I cansee it through. Towering over me, my roommate grabs the ball and sneers.

"As if you never learn. You're an open target, and then wonder why I screw with you." The girls at her back laugh and bump shoulders, all staring down at me on the bench. I hate yard time the most. So exposed with nowhere to hide. "Hey, I'm talking to you," Thistle slaps my other cheek. Her real name is Thea, but no one is allowed to call her that.

"One of these days, you won't need to pretend the real world exists," she cackles. Rule number one of juvie, when the counselor tells you it's best to write down your 'healing journey' and keep it hidden under your bunk, don't do it. Leaning closer, her twisted hateful face is all I can see. "Because I'm going to put you in a coma one of these days. The extra time will be worth it, knowing someone as pathetic as you isn't getting out of here before me."

Her friends join in with the taunting, backing up their leader. The idle insults grate on my nerves, but a certain voice speaks louder. The one from my daydream.

They're never going to stop until you show them you're not spineless. I sniff, holding a hand to my cheek.You need to have some fight. Somewhere, from the reserves of my tattered being, I manage to lift my head and glare through my tears.

"No, Thea," I drawl out her name, mustering as much venom as I can muster. A collective gasp echoes around the group, and Thistle's laughter dies immediately.

"What did you call me?" she asks, her knuckles whitening around the football.

"Sorry, I forget you're both illiterate and ignorant–Thea," I put emphasis on her name, feeling a strange mix of fear and satisfaction. Thistle hates it when I use long words. She lunges forward and punches me in the stomach. I double over in pain but manage to catch myself from falling from thebench and curling up on the ground. Putting myself in a more compromising position will rescind all the confidence I've just conjured.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?!" Thistle screams. She looks around at her friends for support, but they're all staring wide-eyed, unsure what to do. It seems they've never seen anyone stand up to Thistle before.

"Just leave me alone," I grunt out through the pain. Thistle lets out an angry huff.

"You're not worth wasting my valuable yard time over," she snaps, turning to walk away with the football. "I'll see you back in the cell, roomie."

You'll survive, that same voice from earlier sounds. I feel her presence at my side, a lingering comfort I subconsciously lean into. Tendrils of dark hair laced with silver highlights trickle over my arms, a chin resting on my shoulder. You have to. You've got a life to live once you get out of here.

"I-I don't think there's anything worth surviving for. I've got no one waiting. There's just...nothing," I whisper quietly. Keeping my chin ducked, my words are kept private for the one they were intended for.

And since when have you needed a reason? You've been alone for far longer than you've been here.

She's right. My mom's latest boyfriend wasn't any different from all the rest. Assholes, junkies. They used her, she used them. But it wasn't until the latest that the attention was turned on me. Me–the fragile girl who hid in the attic, lost in her books and her studies. I knew from a young age I was going to become more than my roots. I'd make a life for myself and never rely on drugs to get by. Until that attic became my personal hellhole. Now look at me, in jail for defending myself, my life in shambles. No one will accept or employ me after this.

I'm Jazzie, by the way, and I'm going to help you. The woman, probably in her twenties, gives me a knowing look, as if she's seen the entire world and has the secret to succeeding in life sorted into a simple formula. I know she's imaginary, a figment of my desperate and fragile mind struggling to keep a grasp on reality, but I can't help my small smile. For the first time, I don't feel quite so alone. I have a friend, and I don't even need to lose myself in a daydream to find her.

“What do you suggest?” Lucas’ voice is clipped. Even before I open my eyes, I’ve tuned into his mood. It’s unlike him to speak so harshly, and anyone who hasn’t had fitful dreams of being an unworthy whore would mistake his tone for concern.

“My advice is to give her back her prescribed medication. She was given them for a reason.” The second voice is unfamiliar. I fight against my eyelids to open but the blinding lights waiting on the other side make it impossible. A metallic crash causesme to flinch, my arms seizing painfully around the needles embedded in the crooks of my elbows.

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