The Delusion

by Laura Gallier

  I would have called someone, but I had no clue where my cell was.

  I surrendered to the pain and let my eyes drift shut. I considered the real possibility that the water was contaminated and I might not survive drinking it. Had the old man intended to kill me?

  I had a sudden, disturbing realization: if I died, it might look like a suicide.

  Fear gave way to exhaustion and a final crushing thought.

  I don’t want to be number thirteen.

  FIVE

  A BLINDING WHITE LIGHT penetrated my closed eyelids.

  Maybe there is an afterlife.

  Then a tongue slurped the side of my face, drenching me with drool and reality.

  Daisy. “Back off, girl.”

  I squinted and shielded my eyes from the sunlight. I was still on the living room floor.

  So . . . I had cheated death and would live to see another day.

  I could only be so grateful—the pain in my stomach was still there, throbbing so bad I wanted to cut my gut open so I could rip it out. It was like a glacier was burrowed in my midsection. At least my headache was gone, but my back was killing me. I missed my mattress.

  I sat up like an arthritic grandfather. My mouth was a desert.

  From the looks of things, my mom still wasn’t home. Typical.

  I bent my knees and tried to get a feel for whether I could stand. I leaned on the sofa, then put my feet under me. That worked.

  The wall clock read 7:43 a.m. So much for first period.

  “Oh no. Jess.” I looked around for my phone and spotted it by the front door. I scrolled through a flood of text messages from her, then replied: Sorry I didn’t come get you today. Be at school soon.

  I tossed my phone on the kitchen counter. At least I could fix whatever I wanted for breakfast today. I was famished and dying of thirst. Maybe if I ate something hot, like oatmeal, it would melt the freeze in my belly. I microwaved some oatmeal and consumed it, but the ice remained.

  I thought maybe a steamy shower would do the trick.

  It didn’t.

  I grabbed some clothes from my closet, then paused. My room was darker than it had been a half hour ago. The sunlight was fading as more storm clouds rolled in. Guess I should have seen that coming. I considered staying home. I had a stomachache, after all. But I needed to keep up my attendance if I wanted to exempt out of finals.

  I was dressed and out the door by 8:30 a.m. The sun had officially checked out, and the wind blew harder than usual. I had taken only a few steps down my driveway when I heard a terrible noise—like nails on a chalkboard. No, more like an army of razor blades attacking a jagged rock. I looked in the direction of the racket. Nothing there.

  I started to mount my bike, but then I realized that the revolting sound was behind me, closing in. I whirled around.

  A jogger entered my line of sight. But she didn’t look right.

  At all.

  What. Is. That?

  My body went numb as I tried to make sense of the ghastly scene. A slender, attractive brunette out for a morning jog . . . with what looked like eight-foot chains dragging behind her. The four bulky metal tails grated against the cement, drowning out the rhythm of her tennis shoes pounding the street. The chain links snaked, staggered, and slapped the pavement.

  The woman tilted her head from side to side, seemingly on beat with the song in her headphones.

  Is this some sort of joke?

  She ran past me, and I traced the chains with my eyes, up her legs and back, all the way to a chunky, tarnished shackle fastened snugly around her neck. The metal links were bound to the collar at the top of her spine, just under her ponytail.

  As if that wasn’t freaky enough, four or five black cords about as thick as my thumb spewed from the back of her head. They jutted straight out several inches, then hung down to the small of her back, swaying from side to side, smacking the chains.

  “That’s jacked up.”

  Did I say that out loud? I wasn’t sure. But what I was seeing was more than bizarre.

  It was somehow evil.

  The jogger finally paced out of sight. It occurred to me to run to the edge of my driveway and look some more. But no way. I wanted her and her freakish metal trappings to get lost. The skin-crawling sound lingered, making my already soured belly churn even more.

  I needed a second to get my head on straight, so I went back inside. I normally wouldn’t leave my backpack on the driveway—my laptop was in there—but I was so creeped out, I walked off without it.

  I went to the kitchen, splashed warm water on my face, then sank back into the sofa. The ticking of the wall clock was grating. I kept mentally replaying the soundtrack of those grotesque chains.

  My mind worked through possible explanations for Freddy Krueger’s girlfriend jogging by my house.

  She’s training for a triathlon, and the weight of the chains and cords are helping her bulk up.

  No. She works as a clown—not a happy one who goes to birthday parties but a horrifying one. A clown who leads haunted hotel tours. And she’s about to go to work.

  Maybe she was on lockdown in a prison and somehow broke free.

  While wearing athletic gear.

  And headphones.

  None of my theories added up, so I turned on the TV. It took a while, but I finally felt myself relax.

  I glanced at my cell. 9:06 a.m. I’d just overreacted to the icy feeling in my abdomen, that’s all. No need to keep a death grip on the throw pillow. Time to move on with my day.

  I locked the door and walked to my motorcycle, that threatened feeling pretty much gone. But seeing my jostled backpack plopped right where I’d left it made me uneasy all over again.

  I couldn’t get the image of the jogger out of my mind.

  What was so scary about her? It had to be the way she looked . . . enslaved—as if, without her knowing it, something had shackled and claimed her as its own. Something powerful. And cruel.

  I normally was out of my driveway in three seconds flat, but not this time. My hand hovered over the brake. Maybe the Bloody Mary jogger was circling back.

  I glanced around and saw that someone—some kids, probably—had spray painted the word rage in large lowercase letters on the fence across the street.

  Losers.

  I made it to the stoplight at the end of my neighborhood without seeing any joggers. Should I tell Jess—or anyone—what I’d witnessed this morning?

  The light changed, and I pulled forward, glancing at the grocery store parking lot on my right.

  “What the . . . ?”

  My eyes locked on a well-dressed man at the gas pump. Were those chains draping behind him? Cords coming from his head?

  Please, no.

  My attention jumped to the girl two pumps down. She had them too.

  I drifted into the curb on the grassy center median, and someone laid on his horn. I came to a stop, but my mind was reeling.

  “Get out of the road!” a guy yelled. The woman in the passenger seat beside him opened her door and mouthed something at me.

  They each had a fat shackle around their neck.

  My bike was sideways in the middle of the lane, but I sat there, unwilling to move, terrified of taking my eyes off the metal monsters around me. A mechanic stared from outside the auto repair shop across the street, then waved his arms at me. When I didn’t respond, he turned back toward the shop, pulling his chains along. The sound of metal scraping cement invaded my ears.

  This is not happening!

  It occurred to me to call 911, but the man who had honked at me had gotten out of his car and was now approaching. I managed to grip my bike’s handlebars, fully convinced that if I didn’t drive away, he’d kill me.

  I pulled back hard on the gas and took off. If I happened to plow over the mutated guy, oh well. I made an illegal U-turn and sped back in the direction of my house. I don’t know if the light was green or not, but I blazed through the intersection into my neighborhood.
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br />   It felt like a bad case of déjà vu. On steroids.

  I flung my bike into park and sprinted toward my house like I was being hunted. Was I?

  As I reached the porch, I happened to glance at the garage door. Whatever blood remained in my face drained out. The word suffer was painted on there, just like the graffiti on my neighbor’s fence. How had I overlooked it?

  I raced upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom, collapsing to the floor, clutching the sides of the toilet. I tried to barf again and again, but I couldn’t. I was panting like a dying dog, drooling on the toilet seat.

  What just happened? How did those shackles . . .

  Wait—do I have one?

  I hadn’t noticed anything unusual about my appearance when I’d showered this morning, but everything had changed since then. Humanity was now under attack. Or I was officially psychotic.

  I stood slowly, bracing myself against the wall. My legs were Jell-O; my skin, cold and tingly. Fear breathed down my neck.

  But I had to know.

  I swallowed hard, then inched my way around, eyes shut. I told myself I’d open them when I was facing the mirror above my sink. A few more steps, then . . .

  SIX

  I FORCED MY EYELIDS OPEN and studied my reflection. No demon dog collar. I exhaled, then turned and checked the back of my head. No freaky dreadlock cords either.

  Relief.

  I was still bothered by the sight of myself, though. It was like a stranger was looking back at me. I rushed to my room and crammed my face in my pillow. I was beyond delusional. I needed to be locked up—or at the very least, sedated.

  Did someone follow me?

  I peered out the blinds, then yanked them shut, in full paranoia mode.

  The front door! Did I lock it?

  I shot downstairs, checked the lock, then ran back up to my room and shoved my desk in front of my door. I burrowed under the covers and hid there. For hours. I drifted in and out of sleep, wrestling over what I had or hadn’t seen.

  The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that it was all in my mind, some sort of psychosomatic episode that only felt real.

  It’s not easy to accept that you’re crazy—that your formerly sound mind is now overrun with hallucinations just because you did something rash the night before. I was almost certain the well water had poisoned me. Toxified my brain.

  My phone was outside, in a holster on my bike, and it would stay there forever as far as I was concerned. Leaving the house was no longer an option.

  My mom still hadn’t come home.

  Eventually I pulled the covers off and looked for the clock that sat on my bedside table. I’d knocked it to the floor.

  2:08 p.m.

  I sat up and took a panoramic glance around my room. My stuff was the same, but I felt far removed—homesick even though I was home. I tried convincing myself I’d been sleeping all day, and this morning’s horrifying events were merely lingering images from a fever-induced nightmare. But I knew better. My desk was in front of my door. Irrefutable proof.

  It hit me that I was missing track practice. Then it occurred to me that I might have a life-sucking brain tumor. What if, instead of sitting barricaded in my room, I should have been rushing to the nearest emergency room? Getting prepped for surgery?

  But I trembled at the thought of going anywhere.

  I was desperate to talk to someone—Jess, Lance, my mom—anyone who knew me before I became delusional. I needed my phone, but could I grab it and get back inside without being mauled by steel-trapped zombies?

  I lifted one slat of my wooden blinds up half an inch. No one.

  I grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled the hood over my head, then dug in my junk drawer until I found sunglasses. My Louisville Slugger baseball bat in hand, I drew a deep breath. Time to make my move.

  I took slow, calculated steps down the stairs. Daisy sat by the front door, wagging her straggly tail.

  “No walk today, girl. No way.”

  I clutched my bat in one hand and slowly turned the lock with my other. Visions of this morning’s jogger overwhelmed me. I imagined her leading a charge against me, kicking the door down the instant I cracked it open, followed by the disgruntled guy who’d honked at me and a horde of other chained and corded monsters.

  I peered through the sheer curtain panel. The coast was clear.

  My hand hung motionless on the doorknob. I could hear my stampeding pulse. My stomach was subzero. But I had to act.

  I swung the door open and sprinted to my bike, avoiding looking at the malicious word painted on my garage door. In seconds, I had my phone and was back inside. I slammed and locked the door, then pressed my weight against it, fighting to catch my breath.

  Jess had texted me: Where are you???!!!!

  I swiped my phone, anxious to call her, then stopped. How do you tell your prom date you’re seeing chains and cords everywhere? Hanging off people?

  I hadn’t talked to my best bro back in Boston in a month, and he was too far to help me. I called Lance, pacing in circles in my living room while his cell rang. I got his voice mail.

  “Hey, Lance. You know I don’t usually leave messages, but—I—I just really need you to call me. Like, the minute you get in the locker room. Something really, um, terrible happened to me today. I mean, I’m okay, I think, but—no, I’m not okay. Just call me.”

  I hung up and texted him.

  I wasn’t sure about calling my mom. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone to her for comfort. I only recalled babying her a million times. Bringing her boxes of Kleenex after bad breakups and putting damp washcloths on her forehead on hungover mornings.

  I collapsed back onto the sofa and called her anyway.

  “Hey, Owen.”

  She sounded sober and upbeat. I instantly felt a little better.

  “Hey, Mom, where are you?”

  “I stayed at Teresa’s house last night. I brought my laptop with me. Been editing papers all day. You remember Teresa, don’t you?”

  Yeah, right. She was at some guy’s house. I didn’t know whose, and I didn’t care.

  “I’m sorry. I should have let you know I wasn’t coming home.”

  As usual, our roles were reversed.

  “I’ve had a really, really bad day, Mom.”

  “You have?” I cherished the sound of concern in her voice. “What happened?”

  “I don’t feel good. I’m kind of—seeing things or something. Scary things.”

  “Oh.” There was a long pause. “What do you mean?”

  “People don’t look right.” I turned sideways on the sofa and dug my feet under a cushion. “It’s hard to explain. When are you coming home?”

  “In about a half hour. Why don’t I pick up some chicken?”

  “No! Please. Just come straight home.”

  “Oh . . . um, okay. I can do that.”

  My mom was so different when she wasn’t drinking. She actually kind of felt like a mom.

  I counted down the minutes until she came home, but I wasn’t sure what to tell her. If I spilled my guts, she’d be no help—she’d just head straight for her liquor stash. If I couldn’t handle something, she sure couldn’t. And drinking was her go-to crutch. That and pathetic men.

  I clung to the sofa and took comfort in the normal humans on TV, even on the Shopping Channel. Why didn’t the people outside my house look normal? It just didn’t add up.

  I sat there drowning in my own cognitive typhoon until finally I heard the garage door open. I turned and faced the kitchen, knowing she’d enter from there any second. I was desperate to see a familiar face.

  “I’m in the living room, Mom.”

  I heard her fumbling through the mail. Seriously? She went traipsing down to the mailbox at the end of the driveway instead of coming straight in to check on me?

  “You got a letter from Boston U.”

  “Great, Mom—can you please come here?”

  Finally, I heard junk mail
hit the recycle bin. But then . . .

  No.

  I tried to deny the echo in my ears—metal skimming the tile floor, then the hardwood. I couldn’t bring myself to look. I stared into my lap, hardly blinking.

  “How are you feeling?” I could see her silhouette in my peripheral vision, but I didn’t dare lift my head.

  My phone dinged. It was Jess: You okay? I’m worried. Call me!

  My mother lowered herself into the lounge chair across from me. A nauseating quiver crept up my back.

  “What happened to you today?” She opened an envelope.

  “I told you. I’ve been seeing really horrible things.”

  I felt her staring at me, silently looking me over. “Are you on something?”

  I balled my fists and glared at her, no longer slumped over. How dare she? Good news, though—there was nothing weird about her appearance. I was still incensed but more relaxed than I’d felt all day. “Mom, why would you even ask me that?”

  “Well, you sounded strange on the phone. And you wouldn’t be the first teenager to get high.”

  I popped my knuckles—mostly because it drove her nuts—then crossed my arms. “Getting plastered isn’t my thing.”

  She averted her eyes, guilty as charged. But she was never one to admit to her vices.

  She got preoccupied again, digging through that stupid envelope, but that was fine with me. I was just relieved to see her looking normal. I studied her—she wore a flowing skirt with a loose-fitting silky blouse. A scarf encircled her neck.

  Why had I thought I’d heard chains scraping across the floor? Maybe it had come from outside. Or maybe I was a basket case.

  My mom shifted her weight, removed her shoes, and tucked her legs up on top of the chair cushion.

  Clank. My adrenaline kicked in again.

  “So are you sick?” She reached across her chest up to her shoulder and unwound her scarf, a layer at a time.

  “I just don’t feel like—”

  It was like my lungs just quit working. My mother’s scarf cascaded to the rug, and now I could see it. A shackle. Hulking, rusty, squeezing Mom’s throat. I must have looked like I was about to pass out.