Page 11 of Demonic Delights

5

SILAS

My eyes snap open abruptly, but it is pitch black around me, and I see nothing and have no awareness of where I am. My heart is hammering hard in my chest. I am covered in cold sweat, my mouth is dry, and I feel weak and shapeless, as if I were getting ill.

It takes me a few moments to realise that there is a pillow underneath my head and that my legs are tangled in a duvet. I’m in bed, in our bedroom. But try as I might to ransack my memory, I have no recollection of how I got here.

As my eyes adjust, I can just make out the looming white shape of our fitted wardrobe. And the curtained window to my left, and the compact shape of Roxana’s body wrapped in the covers next to me. She is lying on her stomach, dark hair pooling around her head.

With an impulse that seems to come from outside of me, I reach out my hand and lay it flat on the curve of her arse. And as I do, electricity rushes through me, searing through every inch of my being.

Something red flashes in front of my eyes, and I gasp at the intensity of it. For a split second, I feel as if I were about to get the hardest erection of my life. But the sensation’s gone before that happens. Still, my fingers are squeezing Roxana’s flesh more firmly than I would have consciously wanted, which I only realise when she moans and stirs. She raises herself on her elbows and tosses her hair back so that she can look at me.

“Sorry, Roxie ...” I croak, my voice raspy.

“Don’t tell me you fancy another round?” she says with a smile perceptible in her voice. “Seriously, what got into you today?”

“What?”

Is she drunk again? I know she’s been polishing off close to a bottle of wine a day since that night in November, even if she tries to hide it from me.

“Well, I’m all for it. You know me,” she drawls seductively, running a hand over my chest.

I grab her arm, pushing it away.

“What the hell are you on about, Roxana?” I ask, raising my voice.

She freezes, her body posture conveying the uncertainty that it’s too dark for me to see, but that I know will be etched on her face. A brief stab of guilt overshadows my vexation.

“Sorry, I’m just confused. I feel off. What did you mean, though, really?”

She straightens but mercifully keeps her hands to herself.

“I mean the absolutely incredible pounding you gave me earlier.” Her tone is still flirtatious, but there is hesitation in it now. “No wonder you’re drained after that Olympic performance.”

I suck my breath in, my mind whirring at full speed, and my whole world destabilising on its axis. Clearly, one of us is going insane. And as much as I would have usually considered Roxana more likely of us two to go around the bend, I have to admit that the gap in my memory is like an accusing finger pointed in my direction.

What is the last thing that I do remember?

Going into Wilson’s office. And then nothing, hours just lost. And not in the same way that one may not remember an ordinary, mundane Tuesday three years ago. Because even if memories of that have evaporated, there is a distinct sense of having lived that Tuesday. While in this case, I feel as if those hours were taken away from me completely, hacked and torn out of the fabric of my life. It feels as if I ceased to exist altogether for those hours.

No, wait, there is something I recall.

I remember ... dread. I remember being more afraid than ever before. But I have no idea what I was afraid of. With any luck, it was just an isolated psychotic episode, and I don’t need to worry about it.

Still, as I sink back into the pillow and close my eyes, I decide firmly that if it happens just one more time, I’m going to seek a mental health professional. Unlike Roxana, who firmly refused to see a therapist even after the incident with Wilson last year, I’m not ashamed to ask for help when I need it.

“No, no, no. Thank you. No. I cannot wait three weeks, it’s happening too often for that. No, no, I do not need to go to the emergency room but thank you ever so much for your concern ... no, no—goodbye!” Cutting the Eden Vale Psychiatry clinic’s receptionist off mid-sentence, I press the hang-up button and toss the mobile on my desk.

I rub my eyes and undo my tie, but my lungs sear and wheeze with each breath. In spite of the open window, my cosy office feels stuffy and suffocating today, the oak panels closing in on me. I run a hand through my hair, and my fingers come out damp. That’s when I realise my hairline is slick with sweat and that there are wet patches underneath my armpits.

Swearing, I undo my buttons and take the shirt off, and I make for the chest of drawers to my left for a spare. In my haste, I catch the wicker bin with my foot, sending its contents over the broadloom carpet. Of course, the unfinished overnight oats I had for breakfast spill from the container, milk and yoghurt seeping into the dark green fabric.

A knock on the door sounds at the same time, and out of habit, I invite whoever it is in, rather than asking them to come back later. As luck would have it, it is none other than Mrs Stubbs, her thin nose wrinkling with distaste the moment she steps inside. Whether it’s for the rubbish on the floor or for the sight of me in nothing but my undershirt remains unclear.

“Beatrice, lovely to see you,” I greet her, not even bothering to conceal the sarcasm in my voice.

“Likewise,” she says, her tone every bit a match for my own. “Are you not feeling well?” she asks, frowning as she takes in my dishevelled appearance. “You look awful.”