“What was it?” the dark blue storm arrives, forecast in the big misty eyes, the better to see you with. Stubborn as the haunted oak, hard as its heart, stalking back to the door—nay—stomping, after righting her stumble back. Sober in a second.
Another shriek sails down the hall, a banshee cry on a moorland, something snaps… the noise is unnatural, yet occurs primordially. Something no one ever hears. Something she’s never heard before; bone leaving its stationary lock, it ends the scream. And the sound of more screaming as women are not fortunate enough to bolt their door in time, with the few shouts of men unable to believe their eyes.
She rushes to the door and unlocks it; mayhem lay out there basking, maybe even doom. She’s not even thinking about dying, because she already feels dead, and has, ever since she did, once…
She knows we live on.
The door’s flung open, and where she would’ve pushed out she’s unable to. She’s faced with someone standing there, a strawberry blonde with a face a doll maker could find inspiration in.
A lilac dress stains in yellow at the front of her skirts, unable to speak the obituary of her last simpering words. Her pale swans throat is bare, like her chest, and has been torn out and off, just like her corset. Red pulses out and paints her nudity. She’s lost control of her bowels. And as the woman attempts to say something, her mouth a perfect circle, she expires, her sightless eyes roving upward. Slipping in the swollen pool of her own last ingredients, fresh blood and loosed urine.
Falling right in front of the dashing American and the Madame, like a character in a gruesome play.