Delirious
Chapter 4 Pt. 1: Five Things I Can See
Content Notes: sexual intimacy between adults, psychological horror, dissociation and partial loss of bodily control, panic and disorientation, unexplained bruising and injuries, brief blood, and traumatic childhood memories.
The basement door opened inward. Only an inch. Cold air slipped through the gap, carrying the smell of wet concrete and something faintly metallic. The key burned against my palm. Beyond the door, darkness shifted as though something had moved away from the opening before I could see it. Then Owen’s alarm went off.
I woke with my hand clenched around his t-shirt. For several seconds, the bedroom and The House occupied the same space. Floral wallpaper covered one wall of my apartment. The basement door stood where my closet should have been. Black residue stained the bedsheets between Owen and me.
I blinked. The wallpaper became paint. The closet door returned. There was nothing in my hand except a fistful of soft gray cotton. Owen reached toward the phone vibrating across my nightstand and silenced it. The screen read 5:38 a.m.
“You’re here,” he murmured. His voice was thick with sleep.
I released his shirt. “That sounded like a question.”
“It was an observation.”
He rolled onto his back and studied my face. His blond hair had flattened on one side during the night, while the longer strands near his forehead pointed in several different directions. In the weak light coming through the curtains, his green eyes looked gray.
“How long was I gone?” I asked.
“Less than a minute.”
“Did I say anything?”
“You told someone not to open the door.”
My pulse stumbled. “Anything else?”
Owen shook his head. His hand remained on the mattress between us. Close enough for me to take. Far enough that I did not have to. I stared at the ceiling and tried to hold on to the final image from The House. The brass knob turning. The door opening. Darkness on the other side. Whatever had been behind it had not come through.At least, I didn’t think it had.
Owen’s alarm sounded again. He groaned and reached blindly for the phone. “You need to get up,” I said.
“That feels unnecessary.”
“You have a shift.”
“They’ll survive without me.”
“You’re a paramedic. Statistically, someone might not.”
He turned off the alarm and dropped the phone onto his chest. “That was manipulative.”
“It was accurate.” I snorted.
“Worse.” He stayed where he was for another moment before pushing himself upright. The blanket slipped to his waist. The soft morning light traced the line of his back and the familiar shape of his shoulders—not broad enough to look deliberately built, but strengthened by years of lifting stretchers, equipment, and people who could no longer carry themselves.
Owen rubbed both hands over his face. I watched him swing his legs over the side of the mattress. His overnight bag sat beside my dresser, still open from the night before. He had packed one clean uniform, socks, deodorant, and a toothbrush. Everything he brought could be gathered in less than a minute.
Nothing about his presence in my apartment was permanent. I usually found that reassuring. This morning, it made the room feel temporary too. Owen stood and retrieved his uniform pants from the desk chair. “What time did you actually fall asleep?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were awake at two.” He told me.
“So were you.”
“You were awake again at three thirty.”
I watched him step into his pants. “You were checking?”
“You kept moving.” He then pulled the navy blue cargo pants over his hips. “What happened when you went inside?” he asked.
“I saw the basement door.”
Owen paused while fastening his belt. “Did you open it?”
“No.” The lie came too easily. I had not opened the door...technically. Something on the other side had.
Owen turned toward me. “Leri.”
“I didn’t put the key in the lock.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“I got close.”
“How close?”
“The knob turned.”
His expression changed. “From your side?”
“No.” I said lowly.
Owen stopped dressing. The indigo uniform shirt remained folded across the back of the chair. His radio and utility pouch sat beside it. “What came out?”
“Nothing.”
“That you saw.”
“I woke up.”
He looked toward the closet. The ordinary white door remained closed. “You should call Dr. Shah,” he suggested.
“At five forty in the morning?”
“When her office opens.”
“I saw her yesterday.”
“And since then, an internal basement door opened by itself.” Owen retorted.
“Bell also took the key.”
“Apparently The House made another one.”
“It was a representation.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” I argued, “but I know the physical key is sealed in an evidence room. Unless Bell has started storing police property in my skull, it wasn’t the same object.”
Owen picked up his uniform shirt but didn’t put it on. “You’re doing that thing,” he said.
“What thing?”
“Explaining why something makes sense instead of admitting it scared you.”
“I can do both.”
“Are you?”
I looked down at the blanket. A faint crease ran across his chest where I had clutched his shirt. “I’m working on it,” I murmured.
Owen’s face softened. He set the uniform shirt down again and sat beside me. The mattress dipped beneath his weight.
“You don’t have to be okay before I leave.”
“You say that like you have somewhere to be.”
He glanced at the clock. “I have twenty minutes.”
“That’s practically a vacation.”
He smiled, but concern remained in his eyes. I reached up and smoothed one of the unruly strands of hair away from his forehead. It fell back into place immediately. “You’ve done enough,” I told him.
“That’s an alarming sentence.”
“I mean it.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know.” His gaze dropped to my mouth when I leaned toward him. The first kiss was brief. Familiar. His lips were warm, and his jaw was rough with the beginning of stubble. When I kissed him again, I let my hand settle against the back of his neck.
Owen pulled away before I could draw him closer. “Talk to me,” he huffed; worked up but still concerned.
“I’m kissing you.”
“I noticed.”
“Then why did you stop?”
His thumb moved once along the inside of my wrist, avoiding the scratches. “Because you just woke up from a switch,” he explained, “and because you told me I’d done enough before trying to pull me back into bed.”
Heat rose into my face. “I’m not paying you.”
Owen's expression softened. “I didn’t say you were.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
“That’s my line.”
I shifted closer until my knees touched his thigh. “I’m here,” I said.
Owen held my gaze. “Who is?”
“Leri.”
“Anyone close?”
I listened inward. The House remained quiet, but not vacant. I could feel the distant shape of it behind my thoughts—the upstairs hallway, the kitchen lamp, the basement passage. Someone moved far from the front. Too faint to identify. “No one close enough to take over,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be.”
Owen continued watching me. Intimacy had rules with us because it could not survive on assumptions. If I began slipping away, he stopped. If someone else came forward, whatever permission I had given ended with me. He never treated consent like an object one person could leave behind for the next. Whoever was present had to understand what was happening, know who he was, and make their own choice. Most of the time, that choice was to stop.
Camille had kissed him before. She had held him, flirted with him, and once fallen asleep with her head in his lap during a movie. But Owen had never assumed that affection from one of us meant access to the rest. He didn’t make the system responsible for managing his disappointment.
That was one of the reasons I trusted him. It was also why I wanted him now. “I want this,” I declared. “Not because you stayed. Not because you drove me anywhere. I want you.”
Owen searched my face for another second. “What happens if you start to fade?” he wondered.
“We stop.”
“If someone else comes forward?”
“You ask again.”
“And until they answer?”
“Nothing happens.”
His hand settled at my waist. “Still sure?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
He kissed me slowly. There was no urgency at first. Only his mouth moving against mine and the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of my shirt. I slid my fingers into his hair, catching the softer strands near the nape of his neck. The world did not disappear. That mattered.
I remained aware of the mattress beneath my knees, the alarm clock glowing on the nightstand, and the morning traffic beginning beyond the curtains. I knew where I was. I knew who held me. I knew I had chosen it. Owen drew back long enough to pull his shirt over his head. His hair fell into his eyes again. I smiled.
“What?” he asked.
“You look ridiculous.”
“You started this.” He pointed at me.
“I contain multitudes.”
“That excuse works less often than you think.”
I kissed the faint crease beside his mouth before it could deepen into a grin. His hands moved over me with familiar care, never presuming that familiarity meant he could stop paying attention. When he lifted the hem of my shirt, his gaze remained on my face. I raised my arms. He removed it.
The room felt colder without the fabric, but Owen’s hands were warm against my waist. His thumb traced the edge of an old bruise near my ribs. He did not ask where it came from. We both knew I couldn’t answer. Instead, he kissed the unmarked skin beside it. My breath caught.
Owen looked up immediately. “Still here?”
“Yes.”
“Good?”
“Yes.” I drew him back toward me before he could ask a third time. We moved beneath the blankets, away from the pale stripe of morning light. His skin pressed against mine. The scratch of his jaw passed over my neck. Every sensation remained separate and identifiable—his mouth, his breath, the weight of his hand, the steady pressure of his body. Nothing arrived without warning. Nothing was taken.
When we finally moved together, Owen kept one hand linked with mine against the mattress. I used the pressure of his fingers to anchor myself whenever pleasure blurred the edges of the room. For once, losing control did not mean losing time. It meant surrendering something deliberately and knowing it would be returned. When the tension inside me finally broke, my face was buried against his shoulder. Owen held me through it, saying my name quietly—not to claim me, but to remind me where I was.
Afterward, we remained tangled beneath the blanket. His heartbeat gradually slowed beneath my palm. Owen kissed my temple. “Still with me?”
“Still me.”
“You sure?”
I lifted my head. “Ask again and I’m charging you for the appointment.”
He smiled. The expression changed his entire face, softening the sharper angles of his cheekbones and jaw. “You were the one who called me a triage nurse,” he said.
“I said extremely handsome triage nurse.”
“You did not include extremely.”
“I implied it.”
Owen glanced toward the alarm clock. The smile disappeared. “I have eleven minutes.”
“You can shower in six.”
“I can shower in four.”
“That explains a lot.”
He pinched my side lightly. I laughed before I could stop myself. The sound startled me. It had been a while since laughter had escaped without first asking permission. Owen noticed that too. He didn’t mention it. He simply kissed me once more before getting out of bed.
꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷
By 6:17, Owen was dressed. His uniform shirt fit neatly across his shoulders, the department patch sewn onto one sleeve. His radio clipped to his belt. His blond hair had been dampened and pushed back, though one strand had already fallen forward again. He stood in my kitchen drinking coffee from a travel mug while I leaned against the counter in my robe. “You ate yesterday,” he said. It sounded like a question pretending not to be.
“I had dinner with you.” I responded.
“That was twelve hours ago.”
“I plan to continue eating.”
“What’s the plan today?”
“Rest.”
Owen lowered the mug. “Actual plan.”
“I’m going for a walk.”
“Where?”
“The park.”
“Which park?” He grilled.
“The one six blocks over.”
“The one beside Granger Avenue?”
“Yes.”
Owen’s jaw tightened.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s near traffic.”
“Most city parks are near traffic.”
“It also has a playground.”
“I’m aware of what parks contain.”
He placed the mug on the counter. “You haven’t gone there alone in a while.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t.” I snipped.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
I folded my arms. “I used to walk there all the time.”
“Before things got worse.”
“Before you started driving me everywhere.”
“I don’t drive you everywhere.”
“You followed me to therapy.”
“You lost time the day before.” Owen rebutted.
“I know.” The answer came out sharper than I intended. Owen glanced at the clock above the stove. He needed to leave.
I hated that our conversations kept turning into countdowns. “I don’t want to spend the entire day in this apartment waiting to disappear,” I said more quietly. “My car is still in Dr. Shah’s garage, and you still have the keys. The weather is supposed to be decent. I’ll walk to the park, sit for a while, and come back.”
Owen’s hand moved toward the pocket where he had placed them. “Do you want them back?”
“No. I agreed not to drive until I’ve spoken with Dr. Shah again.”
“You also agreed before everything with the basement door.”
“I’m not asking for the keys, Owen. I’m telling you I’m taking a walk.”
“Take your grounding kit.”
“I will.”
“Phone fully charged?”
“Ninety-three percent.”
“Location sharing?”
“Still on.”
“If you start feeling pressure—”
“—I check the time,” I recited.
Owen listened.
“I write down where I am and what I’m doing,” I continued. “I identify five things I can see, four things I can feel, three things I can hear, two things I can smell, and one thing I can taste.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“I leave the area.”
“If you can.”
“If I can’t, I call Dr. Shah.”
Owen waited.
I sighed. “Or you.”
“Not ‘or.’”
“You’ll be working.”
“I can answer when I can. If I can’t, dispatch can reach me in an emergency.”
“I am not calling emergency dispatch because I feel strange at a park.”
“If you wake up somewhere you don’t recognize—”
“I know.”
“Leri.”
“I know, Owen.”
His mouth tightened. I stepped closer and straightened the edge of his collar, though it did not need straightening. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’d prefer something more convincing.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“That’s marginally better.”
“And I’ll text you when I get there.” I added.
“And when you leave.”
“Yes.”
“And if Nia—”
“I know.”
Owen stopped. His concern settled between us, heavy and familiar. I rested my hands against his chest. “You have to go,” I reminded him.
“I know.”
“You’re allowed to.”
“That isn’t what I’m worried about.”
“I can function without you.”
“I know you can.”
“Then trust me to.”
Owen looked down at me. His green eyes were clearer in the kitchen light. “I trust you,” he said. “Remember that trusting you and worrying about you can happen at the same time.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
I leaned up and kissed him. He wrapped one arm around my waist and held me longer than usual. When he finally released me, he lifted his overnight bag from beside the front door. “Call me.”
“If I need you.”
“If you think you might need me.”
“That is dangerously broad.”
“Good.” He unlocked the door, then looked back. “See you tonight.”
The words were automatic. They always were. “See you tonight,” I said back.
Owen left. The door closed behind him. His footsteps crossed the hallway and faded toward the elevator. I waited until I heard the machinery engage before locking the deadbolt. Then I checked it twice.
The apartment changed after Owen left. It did not become frightening. That would have been easier.It became larger. The quiet stretched from room to room without his movements to interrupt it. No cabinet doors. No low humming from the kitchen. No uniform bag beside the dresser reminding me that someone else existed outside the boundaries of my own thoughts.
I stood in the entryway and listened. The refrigerator cycled on. Water moved through a pipe behind the bathroom wall. A car horn sounded below. Inside, someone shifted. I closed my eyes. “Not now,” I whispered. No one answered.
I went to the small desk beneath the living-room window and opened the fronting log. The notebook was black, hardbound, and divided with colored tabs. Dates. Missing time. Messages. Body notes. Appointments. Most people used planners to organize what they intended to do. Mine also recorded what I had apparently already done. I wrote the date at the top of a clean page.
7:02 a.m. — Leri
Owen left for work. I am at home.
Plan: shower, eat, walk to Mercer Park, return before noon.
My car is parked beneath Dr. Shah’s office. Owen has the keys because I agreed not to drive. Do not retrieve the car without speaking to both of us first.
I underlined the final sentence twice. Then I added:
If anyone else fronts, please record the time. Do not approach the basement. Do not look for the key.
I stared at the words. They made the previous night sound like a shared bad dream.I left the notebook open beside a pen. In the bathroom, I photographed the scratches on my wrist and the thin cut across my palm. Neither looked worse than the day before.
I checked the date and time on my phone again. 7:11. I showered. I dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and walking shoes. I ate half a piece of toast while standing over the sink, then made myself eat the other half because Owen would ask. My grounding kit went into the canvas bag I carried across my body. Peppermint gum. A smooth stone. A card printed with Dr. Shah’s instructions. A portable charger. Earplugs. A small bottle of water. A laminated card with my name, diagnosis, emergency contacts, and instructions for anyone who found me disoriented. I hated carrying that card. I hated needing it less than I hated the possibility of waking somewhere without it.
Before leaving, I photographed the locked front door. Then I photographed the stove. Then the open page in the notebook. Evidence that I had left the apartment safely. Evidence that could become instructions if someone else returned. At 8:03, I stepped into the hallway alone.
꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷
Mercer Park had not changed as much as I expected. The city had replaced two benches and repainted the railings around the playground, but the same sycamore trees leaned over the walking path. Their roots had broken through the pavement in familiar places, creating ridges I remembered stepping over years ago.
The morning had warmed. Sunlight moved through the branches in shifting patches. Joggers circled the path. An older man threw a tennis ball for a dog that had no interest in bringing it back. A woman pushed a stroller while speaking angrily into her phone.
I texted Owen.
At the park. Still me.
The message showed as delivered. No reply. He was probably checking the ambulance, replacing supplies, or drinking coffee strong enough to dissolve metal. I tucked the phone into my bag.
Children crowded the playground. Their happiness reached beyond the fence in shrieks, laughter, and the rhythmic squeal of swings. A little girl in purple rain boots chased bubbles while her father struggled to keep the plastic wand away from a toddler who wanted to drink from it. The sound moved through me. Something bright stirred behind my ribs. Not pressure. Not fear. Delight.
It arrived so suddenly that I smiled before I understood why. The little girl missed a bubble and laughed as it burst against her forehead. My feet slowed. Inside The House, a door opened. Sunflower-yellow walls. Glow-in-the-dark stars. Paper animals hidden beneath a bed.
“Nia,” I whispered. A giggle answered from somewhere close. The brightness expanded. Colors sharpened. The sky seemed bluer. The painted playground equipment looked newly polished, though I could see rust gathering beneath the bolts.
Can we go closer? The voice was small and eager.
“Not today.”
But you brought us here.
“I brought myself here.”
That’s mean.
“It’s accurate.”
A boy ran past carrying a foam sword. Nia’s laughter moved through my throat before I could stop it. The sensation of her nearing the front was different from the others. Micah arrived like heat. Ivy made my muscles tighten before I knew why. Nia came as lightness. My body forgot its weight. Every interesting object tugged at my attention—the dog, the bubbles, a child’s glittering backpack, chalk drawings covering the pavement near the basketball court.
I gripped the strap of my bag. “Nia, stay close.”
I am close.
“That’s the problem.”
She laughed again.
The walking path curved toward the playground. I intended to continue past it. My feet turned through the gate instead. The switch did not happen like a light going out. It happened like being gently moved away from a window so someone shorter could see. The pressure of the bag remained against my shoulder. I could feel the breeze against my face and the sun warming my hair. But control slipped from my hands. My body walked toward the swings.
“Nia.”
I just want to look.
We stopped beside the sandbox. A plastic dinosaur lay half-buried near the edge. Green body. Open mouth. Ridiculous yellow teeth. Nia crouched and picked it up. The child who owned it was nowhere nearby. She brushed sand from its back with both thumbs.
He had this one.
I went still behind her. “Who?”
Nia turned the toy over. The name MALIK had been written beneath its stomach in faded black marker. Her happiness flickered.
Not his name.
“What was his name?”
Nia did not answer. A woman called from across the playground. “Malik! Leave the ball over here!”
A red rubber ball bounced past the swings. Once. Twice. It rolled through the open gate. Toward Granger Avenue. The world narrowed. A little boy ran after it. He looked five. Maybe younger. A dinosaur was printed across the front of his yellow T-shirt.
His mother shouted his name. The ball reached the curb. The boy did not stop. A horn sounded from the street. Something inside me screamed. Nia vanished from the front so quickly that my knees struck the ground. The dinosaur fell from our hand.
For one fractured second, I was eight years old. Sunlight burned white against the sidewalk. A red ball bounced into the road. Small sneakers slapped against pavement. My mother’s voice came from somewhere behind me.
Watch your brother.
I saw the back of his head. One untied shoelace. His hand reaching. I ran. Or remembered running. Or watched someone else remember it. The horn screamed again. “No!”
The word tore out of me. Someone caught the boy before he reached the street. His mother grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him against her legs. The ball rolled beneath a parked car. The boy began crying. He was safe. He was safe.
My body did not understand. My lungs refused to fill. The playground tipped sideways. Children stopped moving around me, their faces turning into bright, indistinct shapes. The mother held her son with one arm and looked toward me. “Are you okay?” she asked.
I could not answer. The pavement pressed through the knees of my jeans. Inside The House, doors slammed. One after another. Nia was crying somewhere I could not reach. Another voice shouted from farther away.
Get away from the road.
Ivy.
I dug my fingers into the canvas bag. Grounding kit. I knew what it contained. I could not remember how to open it.
“Ma’am?” the woman said. The child clung to her leg, staring at me with wet eyes.
I forced my hand around the zipper and pulled. Peppermint gum. Stone. Card. Water. I grabbed the smooth stone and pressed it into my palm. Five things. The words appeared in my mind in Dr. Shah’s voice. Five things I could see. I looked at the ground. A purple chalk star. A white shoelace. A crushed juice box. The green dinosaur. A red ball beneath a parked car. My stomach lurched.
Not red. Choose something else.
I raised my eyes. “A blue swing,” I said aloud. The woman continued watching me. “A yellow slide. A black fence. A green bench. A white stroller.” Five.
Four things I could feel. “The pavement under my knees.” My voice trembled. “The stone in my hand. The strap against my shoulder. My hair against my face.” Four.
Three things I could hear. “A child crying. A dog barking. Traffic.” The horn echoed through my memory. I pressed the stone harder.
Two things I could smell. “Cut grass. Peppermint.” I had not opened the gum, but its scent clung to the inside of the bag.
One thing I could taste. “Blood.” I had bitten the inside of my cheek. The metallic taste spread across my tongue. The world gradually returned to its proper shape. The street remained beyond the fence. The boy remained in his mother’s arms. No body lay in the road. No one was screaming except inside me.
The woman crouched several feet away, careful not to come closer without permission. “Do you need me to call someone?” she asked.
“No.” The answer scraped my throat.
“You fell pretty hard.”
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay.”
“I have a condition.” The phrase felt safer than an explanation.
She nodded slowly. “Is there someone I can call?”
Owen’s name rose immediately. My anchor. My emergency contact. The person who would leave his shift if he believed I needed him badly enough. I took out my phone. No reply to my earlier text. He was working. I could call anyway. He had told me to. My thumb hovered over his name. Inside, Nia continued crying.
I want to go home.
“So do I,” I whispered.
The woman glanced toward the phone. “Do you know where you are?”
“Mercer Park.”
“What day is it?”
I told her.
“What’s your name?”
“Aleria.” The answer came without hesitation. I was here. I was frightened, but I was here. I lowered the phone. “I don’t need you to call anyone,” I told the woman. “I just need a minute.”
She studied me, then nodded. “I’ll stay over there until you’re ready.”
“Thank you.”
She returned to her son but kept glancing in my direction. I sat on the green bench. The dinosaur remained on the pavement near my feet. I picked it up and held it loosely between my hands. Nia’s presence trembled behind my eyes. “It wasn’t him,” I told her silently.
I know.
“He was safe.”
I know.
“Then why did you run?”
Nia did not answer. A memory pressed against the inside of my skull. A boy’s laughter. A bedtime story. Small fingers pushing a plastic dinosaur across my arm while making roaring sounds. Then a name. Not clear enough to understand. I closed my eyes. “What was his name?”
The House appeared faintly behind the darkness. Nia’s yellow bedroom door. The paper dinosaur taped beside the handle. A narrow opening beneath her bed leading into the walls. From inside that passage, she whispered: You know his name.
My chest tightened. “No, I don’t.”
A pause. Then Nia answered, so softly I almost missed it.
You made us forget.
I opened my eyes. The park moved around me as though nothing had happened. Children laughed. Swings creaked. The boy in the yellow shirt held tightly to his mother’s hand while they left through the gate. I watched until they crossed the path and disappeared behind the trees. Only then did I realize I had crushed the plastic dinosaur between both hands. Its tail had snapped off.
I stared at the broken piece in my palm. Evidence first. Panic later. But for the first time, I wasn’t sure which one I was holding.
