Who: Lily & Oliver. What: En route to elsewhere, Lily fatefully discovers the odd, impolite nature of the elevator and its hiccups. Where: The elevator, and then maybe the hall. Maybe the lobby. When: Afternoon.
Dreamscapes and nightmares of overcast, dark emerald forests and clearing greens, raw and unwinding, haunted her last night, the night before, and all her restless nights this week. In the dreams, she was hiking up a heavy, red velvet skirt all lacy and spattered with blood, sloshing through out sloughing mud banks that stole the ankles and heels of her black, pointed boots often, resulting in her falling most the time. It was freezing, yet underneath her heavy, many skirts and garments, she was on fire. Her hot, spurting breath poked holes into the icy air before her and dusted everything a prisonic gray; the searing memory of turns turned chilly once they fled her languished eyes. She was running from something, or someone, wild black curls rushing, spilling over shoulders each time she slipped, fell into another quagmire. By now the ends were hardened and filthy. Longer than they were in life, fingery branches.
She'd awake with a start and a cold sweat, standing over her bed instead of asleep in it. A knocking heart inquiring to her throat for answers of who exactly was home, and why they let images of struggle and dismay pass through so carelessly the already haunted halls of her psyche's abode.
Lily had, because of this, acquired a taste for insomnia of late, and not just that, but as well had obviously begun sleep walking again.
It took her a few hours in the morning to work up the courage to admit to herself that the stress was, indeed, finally getting to her. She had read, researched, analyzed, turned, uncovered, unwrapped, unclothed, bared each clue she could about what was going on with her and her cousin, how it might be cured, or how anyone here may be helped short of moving out. She refused to admit defeat by leaving, stubborn streak she had as solid as steel, and would attempt her best to make the mysteries here a little clearer. The believer and the skeptic in her were full of a childlike awe and wonder ... having lived her life very wistfully, very dreamily, the idea that everyone here had a story intrigued her. Caressed her imagination. Inspired it and slew it.
Thus, on her way to Helena's apartment unannounced, to merely see if she were home, she took the elevator unwittingly for quicker service having usually, always taken the stairs. Her body was fatigued today, and she did not feel like ascending countless steps which only summoned aches in her ankles (was it all the mud in her dreams ... ?) The elevator was reflective on the inside, polished, and she tilted her head at her own reflection. How pale her skin was...
But, the elevator doors opened up on the wrong floor. And there was a face she found familiar instantly. How wide her eyes were!