As you look up to the window, you can see her legs. This is normal, this is what you always see. And the long white curtain, it's lace spilling over the window sill, brushing against her legs. The legs that look grey, purple and dappled against the clean lace. The legs, still grey, still purple don't move, which is strange.

No one is home but her. This isn't their house anyway. It's her house, and it always will be. Everywhere else she doesn't fit. The door is tightly shut when you get there, all the other doors are wide open. The piano stool is out, ready for her to sit down, laughing and play for you.In the sun, where she best likes to play. And if you listen very closely, very closely the notes are still quietly playing. Canon In D, what they say she plays best, what she plays always. You open the door. The room looks black, but in reality it is blue. The white lace is floating on the wind covering her. You cannot see her face, her body. It's smothering her. You go to the curtain, you move it back. It floats and it rests. The eyes are open and blue. Oh yes, they were always blue, but this blue is the same as everything here. They are wider, glazed over. The skin, white, whiter than the make-up ever made it. And her hair, curls about her neck and the ends covered in blood. Her hands are bound and cut, and their blood soaks the sheets, her hair, the lace, you didn't notice that before.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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