i was running after thymiane, up the charred and lacquered stairs and into the blue dusk of the upper floor. the wallpaper was peeling and there were shards of plaster and chipped teacups on the floor. in each doorway was a tangle of pink ribbons and striped stockings.
i kept calling out but it was hard- something was bound around my ribs and my spine that kept me so erect i couldn't breathe. little by little, the alabaster form of thymiane drew further and further away from me into the darkness. near the end of the hallway she was only illuminated by the window overlooking the garden, dappled by shadows from the ivy. a staircase was to her right and she stumbled as she headed down, disturbing my grandmothers cowbell. a chandelier of sound split the house.
she was wearing that white silk dress she had worn during that fateful night. it was a sliver of soap that quickly fell from my view like a sparkling christmas ornament falling off a tree. at that same moment i tripped on a snowglobe and fell forward into one of the rooms. at floor level i saw two figures before me- a baby drinking a bottle of woollite and a stuffed sheep coming to life. i jerked back onto all fours and ran out, back into the hallway which had become overgrown. willowy branches obstructed my path as i reached ahead, snapping them like sticks of charcoal. i thought of dita and naomi and wondered where they could have gone. why arent they here to help me? in this dilapidated structure the silk patches were all that was left of them. that and a pair of broken fetish heels.
i finally reached the staircase and began to go down, pushing through veils that were pinned to the walls and railings. i fumbled for a door and got a hold of the brass knob, yanking it so i could finally venture out into the snow.
when i succeeded, all the world folded open before me like a book. ahead of me were the icy drifts as well as an extinguished cigar and a discarded copy of the white pages. the forest ahead was an inky black and there was a set of high-heeled footprints. i tried to make my way but fell again. when i tried to get up i found something beneath my hand. it was marilyn monroe's lipstick, the one joseph cotton had confiscated in niagara.
finally she stands over me. thymiane asks why i went through all this trouble. wasn't i supposed to be in the red room, reading about elizabeth siddal? i replied that lizzie simply wasn't who i had thought, and that in my dreams i simply follow wherever the tune of the music box takes me. why would i want to read about an invalid when circumstances had nearly turned me into one myself?
it was only 23 days, she said.
i replied that all of it was too much. my head was like a teapot and if it tipped it would all come out. it would.
