Feature Writer: HannahBaird
Feature Title: DOLLHOUSE
Published: 05.09.2025
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
Synopsis: A desperate woman in debt takes a job at an art gallery.
Author’s Notes: Greetings! This story came to fruition when Lovecraft68 was kind enough to reach out to offer me the chance to participate in this invitational. Dollhouse is a work that deals with what debt can do to someone mentally, emotionally, and psychologically. It is also about the world of art itself, its unwritten rules, exploitation, and esoteric nature. As a work of erotic horror, please observe the tags. Understand this is an exceptionally dark work, but I hope you challenge yourself to read to the end. My greatest thanks to my friends Logan, Katie, and Kayla. You all have been my biggest supporters and I can never thank you enough. As always, a shout out to my contemporaries Tenehua Xochipoca, Eddie_Wilder, Antarctica77, Jackal54641, Vivian White (RoleplayLiterate), RabbeLaid, Sigma, Jordan45, Tanya_Beige, Smokenmirrors512, and the readers who have supported me.
Dollhouse
Debt is a labyrinth of guilt, a brand burnt onto your psyche, a weight that straddles your chest, and deprives you of opportunity, potential, and joy. It is boundless servitude, with no sacrifice large enough to ever pay for it. Kennedy realized the enormity of this condition when she began selling her blood to pay for groceries.
As walked back, holding her aching arm, the paltry sum of bills tucked into her pocket was already gone. Every cent was tallied for what was necessary, and what was not. Seldom was anything free, but the path she walked along, offered one small reprieve. It was a glimpse of the coastline, where over the wake, she watched the chop cut across the shore, pulling with it an expanse of foam, seeing others dive in, to pull against the grapple of the waves.
She stared out into the graces of the waters, thinking of how she wished to slip under it, never to come back. That way, the debt of life, of pain, could be paid back. She wouldn’t give up. Aspen was waiting for her. She started off towards the run down trailer they rented on a plot of farmland beset by two other trailers, rust flaked and weathered by neglect, with sheets of broken and warped weather strips that buttressed against the holes in their sides. Behind each trailer was a poorly constructed outhouse.
It was the smell that she had come to loathe the most, a putrid rot, the damp mold that sat outside the walls of the trailer, manure from a small farm nearby. She saw an eviction notice tucked inside the door. She sighed, clutching the piece of paper as she opened the door and stepped inside, they had done their best with their restrictions to make the filth laden trailer their home.
Aspen was where she always was, on the bed bundled in old blankets, entombed to their rough fibers, pillows propped up to cradle her head. In front of her, a menagerie of piecemeal parts and fabric, with a nimble needle she stitched and affixed them in shapes to resemble dolls.
Her affinity for dolls came from her own condition. Since she was little, dolls were freedom, because in the servitude she manufactured for them, she could live, breathe, run, be anything other than bedridden, legs atrophied, and in pain. She ran her fingers along them, in every crevice, through every strand of hair, they brought her a distinct comfort.
Having nothing but time, she had taken to the study of their form, function, history and purpose. From play to utility, to ritual and status, dolls remained vessels, in which what was imparted on them wasn’t just memories of its owner, it was sometimes in select cultures thought to be souls, bonded to the consciousness of those that held it. The components were specific to the time, the purpose, sometimes made from real teeth, hair, or bones.
Before the disgrace and death of their esteemed parents, ball joint dolls had become a focal point for Aspen. Their ethereal beauty, everlasting, impervious to decay and pain, were alluring and compelling to her. With subtle grace she weaved elaborate outfits for the dolls she had collected, affixed wigs to them, some constructed from her own hair, which was so bright and thin, it appeared white.
Eventually she was forced to sell the dolls she had made, each one a piece of her that pained to part with. Each article of their attire, every suture that Aspen’s long thin fingers had worked on, the doll’s translucent skin like her own, brittle and exposed, now belonged to others, piece of her soul gone forever.
Aspen sat behind Kennedy, as she brought the plastic comb down through Kennedy’s long blonde hair.
“You have such beautiful hair. I wish…I wish mine wasn’t falling-”
“It’s ok. Alright?”
“No. No it’s not. There’s nothing we could buy that gives more life.”
“Don’t, come on.”
There was nothing else to say, all of Kennedy’s encouragements weren’t heard. They were empty, not because they were mere platitudes, but because it had been said so many times in so many ways, that it no longer held weight.
Aspen laid her head back, face flushed red, indicating something resembled life underneath her skin still existed. Kennedy ran the comb through Aspen’s hair in return and kissed her forehead.
“Just like when we were young.”
Kennedy began to make dinner, a can of beans with a can of corn, a vulgar concoction they learned to cherish.
“We got another eviction notice.” Kennedy said behind a long sigh.
Art and it’s community was based off of prestige and connection, the thing that Kennedy desired was to have others see her work, to meet contemporaries who adored her philosophy and style of brush and palette alike. But it was never meant to be. Not even with the prestige of her CalArts degree.
After the death of their parents, investigators found proof of an accelerant, and the fire that consumed their home was ruled as an intentional act. Claims were denied. Uncles and aunts stole whatever they could with vicious aplomb. Their family’s fortunes dissolved in flames like those that stole their lineage of wealth.
She knew of residencies in regions she couldn’t even dream of getting to, she was aware of her former classmates who now posed in galleries triumphantly. Their smug expressions feeling as false as the art they themselves produced.
Medical debt prevented the sisters from finding a home, even under clandestine means, they lived where they could afford to, the financial ruin of their lives grew into a festering resentment. Kennedy worked tirelessly to sell her work, to find patrons. She found instead mockery, that her concepts were too trite or subversive, that her ideas were alienating. Kennedy attended “exposure” events that yielded nothing, entering contests of that held no prizes, just exploitation. She was alienated by what the promises of her future were supposed to be.
It never ended, as debt was a condition of capital. From interest, collections, garnishment, payday loans for Aspen’s medication, defaults, collectors driven by cruelty, all of it a maze, in which there was no way out.
As their dinner simmered, Kennedy walked back to Aspen’s bed, the wind a torrent against the side of the trailer, a dull clap of distant thunder, a prelude to a storm.
Aspen clasped Kennedy’s hand, her digits of bone articulated sharply against Kennedy’s chin. She sighed, her lungs rattling.
“I have good news sis. I found a job lead. At a gallery. I spoke to the owner for a couple weeks now. Wanted it to be a surprise birthday gift, happy twenty-fifth.”
“An art gallery? Are you serious?”
“Yes. While you worked-”
Aspen let out a wheezing cough, as the breath she saved to keep her alive was expunged in a grinding fashion.
Kennedy held Aspen close, cradling Aspen’s head, which was too large to fit her body, her large blue eyes set far too wide apart. Aspen grabbed their shared phone from the nightstand, smiled and spoke.
“Here. It’s a small private gallery. The owner is Jude Calloway. Pay is good.”
Aspen showed her the listing, asking for someone versed in the field of art, with a proper pedigree to “curate and discover new artists“. It was the opportunity she had sought, if her own art would not be seen, than her voice would be heard.
Another cough. Aspen glanced towards the window, smudged and stained, aluminum trim decaying, no way to open it, like the rest of the trailer they occupied, a space corrupted by time and vermin alike. Her body was a prison, her mind was free to roam, but every window of her soul was shut. Aspen’s lip quivered as she looked at Kennedy, her voice wracked with the onset of tears.
“You don’t have to take it.”
“What? Why?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe it’s a bad idea to be so close to that world.”
“It’s a chance Aspen. I have to try.”
Nodding, Aspen pointed towards the shelf that held her dolls assembled from cloth and ragged yarn, baubles and broken items. She was if nothing else, resourceful in her art. Kennedy smiled at the dolls and spoke with a caring warmth.
“Maybe I can get those in the gallery.”
Aspen chuckled.
“For what? A section about trash?”
“‘No. Maybe about hope.”
“There’s no hope in what I make sis.”
“To be fair, mine isn’t any better. Shit I need clothes for the interview. Fuck.”
“Oh…I didn’t think of that.”
“I have an idea.”
Kennedy exited the trailer, and walked the short distance to knock on their neighbor’s door, whom had always helped them regardless of the time. Even without asking, their generosity gave both sisters hope that something good still existed, still held purpose in the hearts of others, to uplift and look out for one another.
Ashlee opened the door, smiling.
“Kennedy! Hey baby. Ya doin’ alright? Need somethin!?”
“Hey Ashlee. This is so fucking embarrassing, but I have an interview and was wondering…if you had any clothes I could borrow.”
“Ya need some clothes? Shit, ya come to the wrong woman. I barely wear anything for my job. Lemme see, ok? Come on in.”
Kennedy followed Ashlee inside, she shared it with a man, who was sweet and sincere, all Kennedy could remember about him was his genuine but sad smile, and his arm that hung limp at his side. Ashlee rifled through her closet, and narrated her efforts.
“Lucky we got tha same build. Mostly. Age ain’t got ya titties drooping yet.”
Kennedy chuckled.
“Ashlee stop, you’re beautiful.”
“Men’ll fuck a lamp post of it smiles at em right, it’s how I make money at the club, as long as ya got the right smile. That’s all ya need.”
Ashlee produced a pencil skirt and black blazer, with a white blouse.
“Best I can do. Try it on. I ain’t got no shoes though, sides’ I don’t think they’d fit. You a short girl.”
“It’s ok. Umm, could I try it on here?”
“Of course!”
Ashlee turned around, as Kennedy changed.
“How do I look? Be honest ok?”
Ashlee clasped her hands together.
“Damn girl. Ya look good. My tip? Pop a button, show off them goods.”
Kennedy blushed, she had never been comfortable with her appearance, singular in what men saw in her, navigating her body with only one concern, one area especially, ignoring her gap teeth or rigid, odd, angular features.
“I wish I could Ashlee but it’s at a gallery, and I don’t think the owner would appreciate something that uncouth.”
“Un-what?”
“Uncouth. Like, lacking class.”
“Ohhhh right, fancy stuff. Well, ya got this girl.”
Kennedy nodded and offered her hand out, Ashlee pulled her in and hugged her, smelling of cigarettes.
“Ain’t no need for a handshake. Go get em. And remember, ya need an advantage, just take down that top button girlie.”
Kennedy smiled and walked back to their trailer and stepped inside, Aspen was sitting in her bed, reading “No Longer Human“. A book that she had read hundreds of times, in every translation, a work that was empty, hungry for something she couldn’t define, but felt none the less.
“How do I look?”
Aspen craned her neck away from the paperback.
“You look amazing. Oh my goodness.”
Kennedy blushed and offered a curtsy.
“Thank you.”
“God I wished I looked like you. You’re just like mother.”
“Aspen, stop, you’re beautiful.”
“I’m practically a corpse Kenny. You don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Spare me. I know what I am.”
It was a conversation they had shared between each other constantly. It wasn’t envy anymore on Aspen’s part, now it had become a matter of health.
“Good luck sis. You’ve got it.”
Kennedy walked over and kissed the top of her clammy forehead.
The next morning, nerves steeled to the best of her ability, Kennedy began the long walk, her mind a haze of nerves, hands trembling as she headed towards the gallery, which was sequestered on a large property that she had never seen, or heard of. It was a familiar Floridian manor, trees in front of it hung with long tendrils of moss that obscured the leaves on the floor below, palms nearby stretched tall. There were manicured hedges of firecracker bushes, their flowers were sparks of pink and red against the massive brick structure.
Out of sight, she undressed herself, rubbing her body with a towel she had packed. Soon, she had transformed into a young professional. Against her better judgment, she left the top button undone on her blouse, heedless of her own feelings, she knew she needed every advantage she could get.
As she approached the manor, the door opened, an older man stood, plain in appearance, his body huskier, in a fitted suit, his voice tinged with a residue of southern honey, calm and deliberate.
“You must be Kennedy Sinclair?”
“Yes. I am. I’m here for the interview. I presume you’re Jude?”
“Hmm you are correct. Please. Come in.”
She followed him into the manor, expecting corresponding opulence, only to find modest furniture, part home, part gallery, the interior belied the exterior in its sheer scope and size.
Prim, demure and remembering to stand tall, Kennedy followed Jude to his office, a room adorned with paintings and sculptures.
“Please sit down Kennedy.”
She did as instructed, still remembering to quell her desperation, and refrain from her bitterness when speaking.
“Thank you for interviewing me Mr. Calloway.”
“Please, Jude is fine.”
Kennedy slid her portfolio across the table, he calmly slid it back.
“No need. I don’t have any use for credentials, I have use for hmm…presence. Knowledge.”
“I understand sir.”
“Hmm, please don’t call me sir. As I said, Jude is fine.”
“Of course. My apologies.”
She began to grind her teeth, she already failed to meet some unknown expectation, just like those that were set within the world of art when she tried to break in. It was unspoken rules that she struggled with, the lack of honesty, how she was expected to know what had never been disclosed to her in terms of social behaviors, her own etiquette near flawless compared to others and yet still she was forced to consider every word she ever said.
“Kennedy, my last curator was able to acquire some interesting pieces. I follow unorthodox measures in my gallery, I consider my clientele to want expression. They don’t want an exhibit of the known, rather the unknown. Pure art. Intention doesn’t matter.”
“Of course, well that depends on the medium, in my studies I was able to articulate in my own dissertation the necessity not just for the boundaries of what constitutes art but rather how it has explicit distinctions that must be reinforced bec-”
“Let’s not discuss that. Tell me, what is your favorite work of art?”
“I don’t believe I could decide, I could speak to the volumes of effort put out during each period of-”
Jude held his hand up, Kennedy noticed how large it was, no malice behind the gesture, but certainly a subdued authority.
“Hmm, it can be anything.”
Kennedy looked down, her studies felt hollow, and purposeless, she couldn’t even name a single piece of art that meant more to her than anything. Every work she cataloged through her studies, and yet nothing came to mind.
“Surely you must have one?”
“Yes. My sister’s dolls.”
“You should bring one in next time. I’d love to see it. Now, Kennedy, how would you feel about being here five days a week? With guided tours on weekends?”
“I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Good.”
They sat in silence, where to her amazement, Jude’s green eyes didn’t wander towards her body.
“Could you find me unique pieces of art Kennedy?”
“Yes there are several online auction houses that I know of and I-”
“No, locally.”
“I don’t have a car. Umm…”
“Hmm? You walked here?”
“Yes sir. Sorry, yes Jude.”
“Online auction houses are fine. But I prefer local. Perhaps I can arrange for transport.”
“Whatever it would take. What is your vision for the gallery?”
“My vision? I don’t have one. This is about trust. I trust to see your vision, as I have all the curators before you.”
“It’s not my money however. What if I-”
“Kennedy, success isn’t measured by your talent, it’s measured by the people who see it.”
She thought she could show him her own paintings, but it would only register as presumptuous, as if she was masquerading her need for a stable job, to selfishly show her art. Which in truth, she could never lie to herself about, is exactly what she yearned for. As she broke eye contact with him, no longer able to sustain the intensity of his gaze, she looked back to Jude.
“Who was the curator before?”
“A man, close to your age. He did a splendid job.”
“How could I improve on what he did?”
“I don’t want improvement, I just want hmm…dedication.”
“Of course. I can say with absolute confidence that I would remain dedicated to your vision.”
“Again, not mine. Yours. You start tomorrow.”
Kennedy’s cheeks reddened, a smile crept across her face, she tried as hard as possible to hide her abundance of joy, knowing that an unspoken rule of professionalism was to remain purely purpose driven. She stood and leaned forward over the desk to shake his hand, quickly realizing that Jude’s eyes glanced at her cleavage, but quickly met back with hers, trying to preserve the politeness between them.
“Kennedy I think you’re going to do a wonderful job here. Arrangements for transportation I’ll work on soon. In the meantime, if travel is too much, I do have spare rooms if you need to stay.”
“Thank you, but I have to take care of my sister Aspen, so, I really need to get home everyday.”
“I understand. Just know that the offer stands.”
“Thank you.”
He stood and led her back to the entrance of the manor.
“I look forward to seeing you on Monday.”
“Thank you Jude, seriously.”
He offered a mere glimpse towards her and a smile before he closed the door. As she changed back into her clothes, she wondered if any eyes were upon her, feeling like she was being watched, she hurried out, unable to dispel the sense of unease she had, attributing it to nerves, or the excitement of the position she now held. She was halfway home when she realized she forgot her portfolio. She wanted to turn back, but knew it would be there tomorrow. She smiled warmly, looking up at the clouded sky as if it was a sign, an augury that while there was no reprieve from their debt, maybe a better future existed.
The fire outside was a swirling mass of incandescences. When the particulates of the Victorian era mansion burned, and carbon seeped into Aspen’s lungs, the fibrosis that was always there, waiting in her body, emerged. It was the same nightmare she always had, her crawling on the ground, teeth clenched, coughing till no breath could be felt, looking at the spent match near her hand, the smallest of catalysts for what would be the end of them all. She woke up, a fearful sneer appearing before her gasp, the mask connected to her BiPap machine she clutched and ripped away, thinking about how Kennedy was gone that fateful night.
Rattling coughs filled the trailer as Aspen tried to prop herself up. Kennedy, still half asleep came to her side, lifting the back of her head up until her breathing stabilized. It was a routine that they had both become deeply accustomed to. When her breathing calmed, Kennedy spoke, groggy and monotone.
“I have to get ready for work.”
“I know sis.”
“You need anything?”
“No. You always ask. It’s always the same.”
Kennedy kissed Aspen’s forehead, and grabbed the same outfit she had the day before, what she prepared to treat now as her uniform. As she left she waved to Ashlee, who was smoking outside the trailer, the plumes of gray smoke around her cigarette tucking under the warm breeze. Kennedy started the long walk to Jude’s, the distant roar of trucks her only companion. Dew and fog mingled, yet the humidity persisted, an omnipresent, smothering force. Covered in sweat, her neck slick and legs dirtied from the path, she went to change behind the series of trees as she did last time.
Peeling away her tank top and running shorts, she crouched carefully, retrieving her perfectly folded attire from her backpack. She dressed, approached, and before she could knock on the door, it opened, Jude standing there, with a comforting smile, his eyes gentler than she remembered.
“Hmm, good morning Kennedy.”
“Morning. I’m excited for my first day.”
“As you should be.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled, professional and courteous, even though she had felt a degree of comfort and accommodation she hadn’t felt before from him. As the door closed behind her, his voice was subdued.
“By the way Kennedy, you can come inside to change.”
Her embarrassment at having been vulnerable to his observation, made her face turn pale.
“Thank you.”
“Hmm. I believe a tour of the gallery is in order. Follow me. The first exhibit I’d like to show you is a model that was constructed by an artist, a resident from Primrose I believe.”
Through a set of ivory double doors they entered, the room was sparse, any décor purposefully minimalist, where in the center of the room a plain pillar stood, with a golden plinth that supported the model.
The model was beyond elaborate, bordering on a living simulacra of existence, every detail, down to the floorboards, to the gilded edged mirrors that reflected the rooms they were placed in, to the micro castles and dolls that were inside the bedrooms of the diorama, spines of actual books stared back from shelves. Kennedy waved her finger in front of a mirror to test its authenticity, and found only clarity in her chipped nail’s reflection. There were miniatures within the diorama itself, the awe of the scale and complexity grew with each pass of her studious gray eyes. She saw the reliefs within the master bedroom of stained glass, panel cut, made with the smallest of details, finely honed, edged and polished. The dolls themselves, stood with slouches and imperfect postures, paused in the middle of their life, their eyes seemed to stare back.
Beneath the model manor, was a root system that stretched to a center of a black sphere, each limb propping up the entire house and the plinth below, all coming from a somber void of nothingness, as if to indicate where the house will go, or perhaps where its denizens came from. Kennedy almost reached out to touch it, her voice nervous, every word quickened with her sharp mind, processing before her tongue could match.
“This is marvelous. I am at a loss for words. The sheer detail, an overwhelming projection of…fuck. This goes beyond an assortment of the abstract, its balance between nature, the constructive philosophy of man’s need to create, its duality incarnate, I see no compromise in how it interrogates-”
“Kennedy. You don’t need to justify it.”
“I’m surprised to hear a gallery owner seek anything except refined examinations of postmodern art as represented by this piece. You have the thought, the taste, the funds to buy this, don’t you want to examine it?”
“No.”
“No? I can do more than that. My observations when I view a work of art, I know every taxonomic brush stroke…I can readily identify all of it. My education, listen, you-”
“Kennedy, come with me.”
“I’m not done studying this, I have questions, wait!”
She hurried after him. Everything she said was true, all pride held within her was called to heel with her own paintings, her training and degree to improve and foster the talent she already had. To conform, to market, and with every effort, her art grew more distant, and more rejected. Where the most pride she could take was a sketch hanging in a coffee shop, everything else made thrown in dumpsters or torn apart in blinding rages.
They went down a long corridor, six portraits were fixed to the sides of the passage. Each held on wooden palettes, all the paintings heavily textured, smothered with oils, carved with hard scrapes from blades, all of them women, save for one man. Their faces had nails driven through them, or were ripped apart with a claw hammer, leaving nothing but pointed splinters, the contours of their faces gone, all what remained was penumbras of chemicals, rough textures and industrial grime, obscuring any identity they once held.
Kennedy studied them, her mind already working towards every deduction, how the faceless curators who with their absent presence, lived on, making way for new thoughts, new ideas, despite the morose nature of the paintings, she felt invigorated.
“Jude, who painted these?”
“Hmm? A very close friend of mine.”
“They’re amazing. The subjects, the artist permitted their destruction after they created them, worn, ruined, but still preserved. This is a statement, the intent here is so abundant and-”
“Follow me. You’ll have plenty of time to study it.”
As she kept up with his pace, she tripped, Jude held her arm, stabilizing her, he smiled at her.
“You alright?”
“Yeah, just tripped.”
“Excited?”
“Yes actually. Haha, that sounds odd to say.”
“Why is that?”
He let his hand off her forearm, she noticed his soft, but firm grip.
“I’m actually not sure, just felt…weird to say to you.”
He offered an earnest, dull smile as they continued onward, Kennedy was already confused as to the alignment of the rooms, attributing it to her poor, dreamless sleep. The next room they entered had an askew doorway she had to crouch under to get into, it smelled stale, and had little lighting. Jude cleared his throat.
“This is an exhibit that was commissioned by the original owner.”
Jude grabbed his wrist behind his back and walked further into the room, a modest library that didn’t have any deliberate artistic displays. It took several minutes for Kennedy to realize all the book’s spines were without titles, only symbols.
She reached for a book, all black, a single golden triangle at the top of the spine, where one side of it was tilted diagonally, lanced through it’s geometry. She turned to Jude.
“May I?”
“You may. It’s an interactive exhibit.”
She withdrew the book, which sat snug and taut between two others, pulling it free after some struggle to her satisfaction. She opened it, the worn leather smooth from time, and flipped through it, the aged manuscript within had no text she could identify, only illustrated pictures of tinctures, volumes of alchemic diagrams impossible to decipher, plants or fauna that didn’t, and couldn’t ever exist, fantastical blueprints for mechanisms and machines that animated lifeless mannequins. At the center of the tome a sprawling page showing a rotted Minotaur sitting within a gilded chamber, below it’s legs a woman on a pyre of coins, next to her was an anemic priestess, thin and ethereal, offering a chalice to the woman that was full of ash.
She closed the book and put it back on the shelf.
“What…what are these?”
“Art that cannot be translated.”
“Fascinating. So, the entire purpose of this exhibit is not only the way in which it begs the patron to partake in the intent, but also the incompatibility of language, of form, to try and-”
“Kennedy. Again, just feel.”
She struggled, against all she knew, and proceeded to follow him after placing the book back, looking over her shoulder towards the books behind, as if expecting them to speak, of truth, of sorrow, of meaning. Instead, there was nothing but the steady hum of an air conditioner, yet she felt that yonder the oaken shelves, something watched and stalked.
Kennedy’s tour of the gallery proceeded unimpeded, Jude showing her every room, every path, save for a cellar, chained with a simple padlock. After she had been shown the sheer breadth of the gallery, she felt exhausted. Jude dismissed her with a surprising warmness, and a paycheck in advance. For the first time in two years, Kennedy and Aspen were able to order a pizza, they had never felt wealthier in their entire lives.
***
The next week, after an aimless cycle of attempts on Kennedy’s part at sourcing new pieces, and gawking to pass time, Jude gave her the same book she had examined from the library exhibit, telling her that “a single missing piece doesn’t matter, it only enhances what is there, and what is left behind.”
She didn’t protest, and accepted it graciously. She went home at the end of the day, marveling at the faux antiquity of the book and placed it next to Aspen. Over the next two weeks, Aspen became enamored by it’s codes, it’s artifices of symbols and esoteric alphabets, it invigorated her, made her take to making dolls again, feeling the whole time as if she understood it all, every letter, every intent, to not let her mind stray, but to focus on creation. For that week, Kennedy smiled to see Aspen fully committed to her craft again, her passion resurrected into a fervor of creativity.
***
Kennedy continued evaluating, sourcing new pieces to curated new rooms, trusting her instincts. She found that the gallery saw almost no visitors, and any walk through she ever provided was almost a party of local artists or bored residents who attempted to understand the experimental works with apathy or boredom. Every time she spoke to Jude about the lack of visitors, he insisted it was fine, and that her efforts were “instrumental for the future“.
Aspen seemed more distant and aloof with each passing day. She insisted to Kennedy that everything was fine, even though she had done nothing except obsess over their phone, even the production of her dolls had stopped. Nights were often spent in silence. Kennedy barely slept, and when she did wake, she noticed that Aspen’s bloodshot eyes were staring out the window, unblinking and fixed.
Despite the restless nights, Kennedy persevered. The next morning, she made the long walk back to the gallery, as always before she could knock, the door opened.
“Hmm, good morning Kennedy.”
“Morning.”
She clenched her jaw, feeling she sounded ungrateful.
“Kennedy, this is very important.”
“If you want to let me go, I understand. I’ve failed.”
“Hmm, you’re being too harsh on yourself. Follow me.”
He offered her his hand, and to her own surprise she took it. It had been so long since someone had treated her with respect, or warmth that the feeling was unnerving. She followed him upstairs, to his residence. He opened a set of double doors to reveal his bedroom, she was surprised to see how tasteful the luxury of it was, still beautiful, becoming of a man his age, but also restrained. On the bed was a series of dresses, blouses, professional clothes and attire, and a series of heels.
“These are yours Kennedy.”
“I can’t. No, this is too much.”
“Please. You don’t need to deprive yourself.”
“No, really this is too much.”
“Hmm, think about it.”
He neatly folded them, with flawless efficiency, she figured he must have done this many times before.
“If you change your mind, they’ll be here.”
She spent the rest of her day fatigued, in a fugue state she couldn’t process. Frustrated that yet again she was unable to met her self inflicted expectations of what the gallery should be, she headed home, hesitant to take the clothes with her, but decided to do so. When she arrived back Aspen was on the phone and hung up as she turned her head to see Kennedy holding her new wardrobe. She sighed, a raspy end to it. She coughed as Kennedy came to her side, handing her an inhaler and as Aspen tried to stymie the vice like tightness in her chest.
Aspen looked at Kennedy with a gaze that she had known since a child, it was abrupt, calculating, and spiteful as she stared at the pile of dresses, heels, and jewelry. She scoffed.
“Must be nice.”
“It’s not like that”
“Sure thing sis.”
Aspen turned over on her site, her back the sign that she no longer wanted to speak. As Kennedy laid down to sleep, tucked under covers, she saw above her a pale figure, vaguely feminine, without a face, made entirely of teeth, impossibly thin, poised in the corner of the small room. She couldn’t move, nor close her eyes, the abomination in front of her tilting it’s head, every tooth on it’s body vibrating, chattering, clenching in a droning rhythm, as spit and drool seeped between every crevice of it’s form. It didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just chattered, and stared. Paralyzed, Kennedy’s own eyes couldn’t leave the primordial construct in front of her, so she never slept, or at least she told herself it was nothing more than an instance of sleep paralysis, when during the morning light, it stirred, finally retreating to what shadows remained.
***
It was a dreary day, one in which rain, torrential and overwhelming covered Kennedy. After having applied her makeup and styled her hair the best she could, the act of nature stood as an insult, a mockery of her efforts. Through the downpour, she held a determination to carry on, regardless of what the environment.
Ragged, coated in water and mud, she arrived to the front of the gallery, and in similar fashion, Jude was waiting, this time with a towel.
“My goodness. You should have called. Hmm, I would have had no problem driving you here.”
“I didn’t want to inconvenience you. It’s not your job to help me with my problems.”
“I want to help.”
She blushed from his words.
As she entered, she shivered, the temperature monitored air was an immediate discomfort, and in shame, trying to clasp the towel around herself, she sauntered to the bathroom to change into her waterlogged dress from her backpack. Soggy, laden with embarrassment, she emerged.
“Kennedy, I had presumed regarding your attire, you would need something else. These are all yours.”
He gestured towards a nearby leather ottoman, atop it an elevated array of luxury dresses, impeccable in fabrics, and design, Gucci, Rick Owens, Prada, every choice she could make that she no longer felt worthy of, all in black, all pristine, professional, yet evocative. She wouldn’t let herself hesitate, she took the Rick Owens dress, and went back to change. It was hand woven in Italy, it’s asymmetrical hem fluttered, allowing a singular slit that ran up her thigh, a spinal hem which caused the gossamer tule silk to pull tight against her bust with a large ribbon that settled below. She tied her hair back into a ponytail, and slipped on a perfectly fitted pair of carbon colored Hermès heels, the hyper luxury reminiscent of what her mother had worn daily. She emerged, reborn.
Jude began to fold the remainder of the clothes, careful and deliberate, placing them all within a leather satchel for her, leaving it on the ottoman. He grasped her hand softly, as they surveyed of the seemingly endless and stagnant gallery, leaning against a metal door she had never seen before, he turned to her and spoke.
“Kennedy. What does art mean to you?”
“Expression.”
“Comprehensive, no?”
“Yes whether static, dynamic, fixed or temporary. All statements.”
“What about carnality?”
The question shook her, she looked down to compose herself before she spoke with a guarded confidence.
“It can be. Depends.”
“Hmm. I see. Is a stripper an artist?”
“They can be. I mean-”
“It is dance, which is art, no?”
“Yes of course there’s no denying the means of expression concealed within movement as it stands within a space which can be anywhere, with or without accompaniment of-”
“What about pornography?”
Kennedy sighed. Frustration growing, gnawing at her keen mind as she pulled a loose lock of her hair behind her ear, scoffing and indignant she responded.
“You’re trying to bait me, a purely crass statement as if I would negate or dis-empower a sex worker because of the boundaries of-”
“Is it, or is it not art?”
“Yes. Undeniable, there have been numerous theses written on-”
Her thoughts slowed, she tried to recall with complete specificity such a reference, she had read about the concept, yet found nothing, it was dismissed, like her own work was, relegated to nothing.
“Hmm. You don’t seem as sure as you did before.”
“I have studied it, I recall it in my program and I-”
“How did you study it?”
“In academia not in, not in my own work or-”
“Are you uncomfortable? If I have crossed a boundary, let me know.”
She felt he was genuine, his eyes sincere, his posture relaxed. He held even the faintest of smiles that seemed to arrest her with it’s honesty. He had remorse, that his intention perhaps went too far.
“I’m not. I’m fine.”
“Very well. Follow me.”
Kennedy followed him behind the heavy metal door, as he strained to push it open, inside it was a theater, a brutal concrete structure with only a single row of usable seats, every other row was covered in bars, spikes, studs or rusted grates, torture devices more than something resembling a place to rest. He gestured broadly with his arm.
“Fascinating isn’t it?”
“This is stunning who built it? What artist? Their background?”
“I did.”
“You did? I didn’t think you were…an artist. You built this by hand?”
“No. I envisioned it. Others built it. Sometimes, that’s what art is. A commission.”
He walked with a confidence she hadn’t seen before, upright fully like a statue of old, he didn’t need to ask her, nor gesture for her to follow, she did it instinctively, the quiet distinctions and glimpses they held over each other in passing, a fondness that was fostered over months, now isolated between them, made manifest in the dark.
They sat down, soon the screen was full, the lights fell to darkness. The film began to play and she noticed it was grainy, low quality, the camera set in a barely lit room, with thundering bass heard from behind the only door the camera pointed towards. She shook her head, leaned over and spoke to Jude, as if there was a phantasmal audience to respect.
“Is this some Dogme 95 concept? Like Von Trier?”
“Hmm. Just watch.”
Kennedy sat back, arms crossed, intrigued to the extent that she was willing to entertain anything, no matter its values, so long as she could use it so elevate herself about those she viewed beneath her.. She knew this about herself, and she hated it, it was all posturing, all to conceal what inside her was shame. As they watched, the camera moved, a man’s hand could be seen out of frame, there were voices outside the room, shouting to each other, the dialogue unintelligible.
Kennedy didn’t lean over this time. She felt like a fool enough as it is.
“What are they saying?”
“Just watch.”
The door in the video opened, with a lone young woman stepping through the thoroughfare, her white sash draped across her short black dress read “Bride to Be” in audacious, glittering pink print. The woman was smiling, tossing her hair over her shoulder, her curves threatening her dress as she moved in front of the male stripper.
Kennedy looked at Jude and back to the screen.
“Is this…a sextape?”
“Yes. In a way. It’s a moment in time in which something sacred, is shattered. Yet think of how many times it has happened before, how many times it will happen again.”
“But this isn’t…you can’t be suggesting this is-”
“Art? Just watch.”
Kennedy watched the bride to be begin passionately kissing the stripper, she soon slunk to her knees, the sucking sounds audible through the theater’s speakers. Kennedy felt a discomfort, not only at the audacity of it, but at the perversity of it. That perhaps she stood corrected, this was art, an expression of extreme emotion that made here feel utterly carnal
The door opened as several members of the brides party stood and watched, clapping wildly, a distinct line was heard from a bridesmaid:
“One last cock before you tie the knot!”
The bride to be feebly tried to push them out, as her entourage cheered, and roared with laughter, drunken, slurred streams of rousing encouragements.
Jude looked at her, his voice was worn, with the slightest rasp.
“Do you like it?”
“I don’t know.”
As the deep gagging sounds of the bride to be continued to surround them both, the grainy low light of the video kept them in the dark, so much so that Kennedy barely felt Jude’s hand settle on her knee, searching for permission. She put her hand atop of his, to nudge it away, but found in it’s weight a comfort she didn’t know she needed.
He took her hand, small in his own and slowly moved down it over the bulge in his pants. She didn’t withdraw her hand, within, stirred something else. Below the slacks she could feel the warmth of his manhood, stiffening as it pushed against the fabric, as she turned her head in the dark, she found him alluring, despite his plain features.
She was determined to show her control, because she admired him, desired him, her knowledge, she wanted to offer more, to be with an experienced man of taste, who challenged her, yet also, understood her.
As the video continued to play, she turned her head towards his, her fingers seeking his jaw, running a nail down its side, as her other hand pushed across the bulge in his trousers, running down his thigh, a light caress, as she leaned forward, her hand sliding down to his neck, her lips parted and met his, tongue sliding past, a gift of lust passed to him, she felt his breath fill her mouth. His hands reached toward her own face, she resisted, pushing back against him, dominating, her heart beating faster as she felt their movements synchronize.
She guided his hand towards the top of her dress, letting him scoop down inside, feeling how heavy her tits were, against the flickering light of the sex tape she peered down to see a damp patch of precum, as she undid his buckle nimbly, and pulled him forth. She swung her leg over, peeling her panties to the side, grinding against his stout cock, it’s smooth crown pressed against her lips. She gripped the seat behind him and choked slightly when he entered her with ease, angling his cock perfectly. As she settled close to his hilt he leaned forward and kissed her again, between his kisses she heard his seductive voice, validating, and powerful.
“You’re so beautiful.”
She had never been called beautiful before by any boyfriend, her heart slammed against her chest as she took back control, gripping the back of the seat to continuously ride him. His stamina was her indulgence, he was mature, experienced, he could hold himself back, even as her tightness clenched and squeezed against his girth. She wouldn’t let him know the ecstasy he was bringing her towards, unable to conceal her shaking thighs, as her hands ran through his thin white hair, determined to keep control, she smothered his face between her tits, only to soon feel him lick, bite and suckle at her pink nipples, his other hand moved from her waist and groped at the other, clenching, absorbing, feeling its natural heft, his large fingers smothered and pulled her nipple between them as he squeezed.
She rolled her hips forwards as he bottomed out inside her, absorbing him down to the hilt, her wetness drenching his groin, as he flicked his broad tongue against her nipples, she moaned, gritting her teeth, losing control. She resolved herself to stop trying to dominate and instead submit fully and wholly. His hand let her tits fall, as his face pressed between them, enveloped as he licked across her collar, offering small kisses trailing up transitioning into light bites, she grimaced, another moan falling forth from her mouth.
She was becoming his.
As the sloppy sounds and cheers of the sex tape filled the theater, the video became a facsimile of their own audience, as if watching their coupling with bravado and awe. Jude expertly controlled her, steadied her hips and letting her rest on his chest, her hands wrapped around his face as they pressed their lips together, a deep kiss that was slower compared to the now fast thrusting below her, she was on the cusp of something she hadn’t ever felt.
Her voice wasn’t controllable anymore, she sighed and relinquished herself over, her pitch raised as did the sounds of the slick slaps of his thrusts dominating her, meeting her hips, pulling her down on top of him slowly, his other hand sliding down to her clit. He began rotating his thumb around her nub, as he slowed his thrust, letting every inch fill her, cockhead meeting her cervix carefully, with complete control, his thumb pressed down, as pleasure bloomed through her entire body, an encompassing burst of light dulled her vision as she choked out a long lullaby of pleasure, voice rocking with each thrust as her body let him channel his cock deep inside her, drawing her in with her hips, and feeling soon his sweet release inside.
She breathed in his ear, soft flutters of her heart pounding, pushing against his chest. The silence between them matched that of the now concluded sex tape that played in the background, the only sound now was their tailored breathing from exhaustion, and his cum dripping on the floor their wet kisses, punctuating the silence.
He kissed her neck and whispered.
“Let me take you home.”
They rode in silence, unable to take their eyes off one another, dismissing what they both wanted. When he dropped her off, they kissed, still offering no words, she watched the car turn away, and slow down the road to a crawl, making a right, and disappearing.
***
Kennedy entered the trailer, her hair still matted, her makeup although attempted to be fixed, was still evidence of what had occurred. Aspen was gone. She started to panic, she asked everyone, even contemplated calling the police, using a neighbor’s phone, as the hours went by, she sobbed. Until the trailer door opened.
“Where were you? I was worried sick, I asked Ashlee, I asked everyone no one said they saw you even leave? What the fuck?”
Aspen met her words with a scorn, an expression of cruel honesty.
“Thanks for asking me how I’m doing.”
Aspen was wearing a simple sundress, which barely clung to her skeletal frame, her shoes plain white sneakers, scuffed and dirty. Kennedy still stood aghast as Aspen trudged in front of her to her bed.
“Hello? Aspen, answer me. Where were you?”
“I went for a walk. I wanted to be a person for once. Feel normal.”
“For hours? Aspen, please.”
She refused to answer her, Aspen smelled of cologne, citrus and peaty, a scent that Kennedy swore she knew, there was a musk that said one thing about what had happened, Aspen laid down in bed, pillow between her legs and closed her eyes, falling fast to sleep as Kennedy stood. Unwilling to fight further, Kennedy laid down, and restlessly replayed the events of the day.
In the morning, as Kennedy dressed, Aspen was still asleep, exhausted from whatever liaison she participated in. Kennedy was able to confirm her suspicions, seeing the white dried substance on the pillow that had slid out from between Aspen’s legs in the middle of the night. She began her walk to work, full of a fury that she couldn’t process. When she arrived at the gallery, Jude had a bouquet of flowers, a myriad of shapes and sizes that she couldn’t recognize, only knowing these were substantially exotic, with pedals that slunk and stood in shapes most unusual. Thorns and serrations ran along their alien ridges. He handed it to her, with utmost gentleness.
“I wanted to present these to you. And make something known. I have feelings for you.”
Her nerves prevented her from answering, even as she graciously accepted the flowers, marveling at them, their scent bright, yet a peaty note was underneath it, something familiar to it. She was enamored, a tear rolled down her cheek as she hugged him tightly, they went up stairs, and continued what they started the day before. It was their new life, her only duty now, was to him, the gallery mattered little to her.
***
Weeks later, they continued their obsession, Kennedy laid down next to Jude, the familiar warmth of his arm around her shoulder was a comfort that she had grown fond of. So many times she would be so drained from their romantic entanglements, that she would fall asleep in his arms, as he would lightly brush her hair and grope her breasts, massage and knead, admiring her form as light pleasures and their closeness bright her to sleep. She would wake up every time he left the bed, and hear him on the phone, distant, speaking below a whisper, often rooms away, seldom could she hear a word he said.
Jude soon returned, naked save for a towel around his waist. He let it fall by the side and slid back into bed with her, his thick form pressing against hers. He kissed her, their lips clenching against each other, already a blooming heat in her stomach, a need, she ran her hand down his stomach and grasped his cock below, feeling it’s intoxicating stoutness. Jude kissed her again, his hand running down her body. Kennedy smiled.
“Who were you on the phone with?”
“Hmm. Just investors.”
“This late?”
“Different time zones Kennedy.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I’ll drive you back ok?”
“No…I want to stay.”
They fucked again, and fell asleep, suggesting she should take the day off, Jude drove her home. The drive was smooth as she watched the moss swing off the trees they passed, a long stretch of road where mangroves straddled the sides of swamps, buried in salty mire and muck, some of the last vestiges of old Florida.
“We used to vacation with our parents not far from here.”
“Oh? What was your favorite place?”
“This old stretch of forest, it used to be a turpentine facility I guess.”
“Hmm, an odd place for a woman like you to favor.”
“It was the history. And it was remote. It felt peaceful I suppose. Would have made a wonderful subject for a landscape painting.”
They kissed and he departed after he dropped her off, she entered the trailer, beaming with joy. Aspen clasped her book shut, speaking in a low growl.
“You didn’t come home last night.”
“I’m sorry, I…I fucked up.”
“Why? Why didn’t you come back?”
“I was with Jude. I was working late and-”
“You weren’t working late. Don’t fucking lie to me. I’m not an idiot.”
“I never said you were! I think…I’m in love with him.”
“You? In love? With him? You’re more like Mother than I thought you were.”
“Please don’t compare me to her.”
“Why? She wasn’t there when we needed her either, when Father needed her. The only time she was in the right place was the night of the fire. But you weren’t there. Funny. Because we were.”
“That’s sick. That’s fucked up. You know what? No. No I’m not putting up with this. I’ll ask Ashlee to check on you.”
“Typical. Spoiled brat.”
“How dare you ask me where I was, when just a couple weeks ago, you fucked off.”
“Difference is, I came back. You didn’t.”
The silence between them hurt more than any words they could say. They had squabbled and exchanged barbs with one another since they were young, now their words only opened older wounds. Kennedy sighed and stepped out of her heels.
“I’m so sorry Aspen. Really.”
She approached and opened her arms, clasping them tightly around Aspen in her bed. Aspen didn’t even have the strength to push her away, so instead she leaned into the embrace, both of them trying to find what was an absent comfort. Kennedy stood and carefully wiped her makeup off, tying her hair back into a high ponytail. She glanced over to Aspen’s nightstand, seeing the worn tome atop it.
“You’re still reading that book? The one from the gallery?”
“It’s fascinating. You can’t technically read it. You can feel it. It inspired me.”
She pitched forwards and coughed, a rattling forced that scratched and burned underneath her sternum. After she regained her breathing, she pulled from underneath her pillow a small bull like doll, assembled from scraps and yarn, its two horns pieces of chicken bones, its center a matted nest of fur and hair, its arms hung by the sides, broken pieces of chain, its wooden legs stiff and covered with feathers, looking as if Aspen had dipped it into a pool of tarnished oil. Kennedy hesitated when she took it.
“This is amazing Aspen. Absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you. No need for hyperbole sis. I just wanted to make it after reading this.”
Aspen held the heavy tome up across her chest, its weight visible on her.
“Can you give it to Jude? I don’t care if it’s displayed, just a token of thanks for what he’s offered you…us.”
“Of course I’ll bring it to him.”
She kept her word. That night, Jude needed her again, he picked her up promptly and unannounced. When they went back to the gallery, they quickly headed upstairs, Kennedy’s skin was on fire as she, waited to savor their fuck. After they finished, she laid next to Jude’s husky form, he kissed her neck softly, running his hand between her cleavage, further across her stomach, drawing light circles as she looked deeply into his gaze, settling his hand between her thick thighs. She kissed him, a comforting wager of love passed between their lips.
“Jude…”
He placed his thumb against her chin, brushing her hair away, watching her barely present smile turn to one of longing. She knew from the look in his eyes, there was a connection, that bordered beyond lust, hurtling into love.
She nodded, no words seemed worthy of uttering, silence was bettered by her tongue.
“I wanted to ask you about…your debt.”
“Ask.”
“In the theater, we watched something, stirring I feel.”
“Yes. It was like art. What we did after. Ephemeral.”
“Your talent, your grace, your passion as an artist, as a student, I wanted to ask you if you would want to…perform? To be paid for your art?”
“Perform? How?”
“With your body. Your flesh.”
“Are you suggesting-”
“It’s not what you’re thinking. No, this is performance to make you free. To embrace your true strength. To make real what you’ve deserved. Respect for your talent.”
“Wait. No, I’m sorry Jude I couldn’t do this I couldn’t-”
“The performance, it’s themed. It’s about myth.”
“Myth?”
“Yes. Just like your art, your performance would be exactly that, a myth. Only whispered about.”
“I can’t-”
“Yes you can Kennedy. You can. For me. To show me and others your art. To help you…be free.”
He trailed his hand across her face fingers down across her cleavage, licking his lips hungrily.
“This is your true craft. Sensuality. Expression. With the chosen performer.”
“Chosen? I don’t…”
“Yes. One chosen patron. To be with you..”
“So, it wouldn’t be with you?”
“No, but I would be watching, and I love you enough to be willing to see you…in the arms of another. I know you’ll come back to me.”
Her heart bent with the utterance of the word. “Love”. He loved her. She was sure of it. As he drove her home that night, the ride was in complete silence save for the soft jazz that played in the car. Jude moved his hand to her knee as he steered, calming her overworked senses. He kissed her passionately when he dropped her off, and inside their trailer, Aspen was already asleep. As she heard the steady cadence of her breathing apparatus, and looked at her frail form, she made the choice then and there. She would perform, so she would be recognized, she would be loved, and they would be free of debt.
***
A long week passed, and on the sixth day, of the sixth month, at three a.m. Kennedy was delivered to the gallery by Jude. As they entered, the entire structure seemed as if it was vibrating, humming below, a droning wave of unease. As they stood in front of the cellar, Jude opened the door, kissed her with the most passion he could muster, seeing her cheeks turn red, knowing the bond she felt towards him. He whispered in her ear the directions she needed for her performance.
She let go of his hand, and descended into the dark, feeling upon her many eyes that crept between shadows, stepping down into a small room, where the blinking red lights of cameras carried a steady blinking staccato, the first lie delivered by Jude, that this performance was temporary, yet she pondered, was it merely a fixture in the gallery? Another commentary on mediums? It must have been, to provide the illusion of permanence. Murals, broken and ripped apart, like the curator portraits above, covered every wall.
Behind her, four women, without garments or adornments, completely naked, disrobed Kennedy, rubbing her skin with olive oil and scraping it down into a bucket lined with ashen leather, they affixed a gossamer white dress, angled over her shoulder and fixed a diadem of rust and bone in her hair, a fire scorched black shawl they wrapped tightly around her shoulders. They guided her through the dark into a small hovel, where a broad ceremonial vase, raised on feet of gold, emitted from the herbs smoldering at it’s basin, a fetid smoke. She knew what Jude had told her to do, to breathe deep, until her lungs hurt, letting the smoke paint her lungs, six times, to absorb the herbal concoction, like times of old, to make her performance “true“.
As the smoke sunk into her lungs, she noticed above all, there was no sound, no chanting, just breathing, her own above all, the quiet majesty of her attendants fading back into the dark. There was no command, no path except what lied ahead towards a wall of tile, it’s dull and misshapen grout pulsing with suppressed light. In it’s center a single wooden door, plain and worn, rotted through with worms that eagerly ate at it’s foundry. She listened, as if to find some direction, and instead was met with utter silence. She grew colder with each step, her mouth dried and her vision blurred.
The doors opened, she stepped through, surrounded under a kaleidoscope of neon lights, crystalline beams ripping against sculptures of beasts subjugating and violating women, rendered in tallow, contusions rendered upon them with edged tools, old and primitive. At the center of the next room, twelve cloaked, hooded patrons stood, candelabras clenched in their hands, barely illuminated, wearing masks of expressionless and formless porcelain, soot smeared on their vestments, all turned to her as she walked on a carpeted floor tainted with mold. Along her were lanterns each a different color of flame in bronze shells that dangled from worn chains that softly swayed, plumes of smoke stalking the empty abyss. The impossible breadth of the room resonated with malice.
Her vision shifted it’s axis, she heard voices indeterminate and infinite echoed in her skull, speaking words she couldn’t know, yet understood. Her flesh tingled and each step held a weight that made her lean from one side to another. Stumbling towards the end of the room of neon soaked resonance, was the same model manor she had been shown before, figures within turned into abominations, resembling broken geometries of flesh, pipes and hooks turned the manor from before into a seething industrial prison, where strobe lights turned the violence inside into slow festering displays of decay. Kennedy held her hands against her eyes and stumbled past, unable to see the outline of the door she headed towards.
She never saw it open, but as her vision adjusted, she was within a forgotten space, a sprawl, a broadened stretch of nothing. When Kennedy stepped forward, where the concrete had once been cool and grit laden against her feet, her ankles were now immersed in a fine black water, filth floating to the top in long spirals that were barely seen under the muted halogen lights, which made a canopy of accented waves that fell like crooked veins into the water. She turned her head over her shoulder to find a repeat of the space she now stood in. Turning her head back, there remained only a corridor, salves of oil and grime that bubbled forth from the cracks, the scent of gasoline burning her eyes, her ankles, the corridor stretched, folded, bent as the chemical scent became more pronounced, the liquid now enveloping her calves, turning to pitch, her progression became labored. Her body commanded her to run, so she did, shawl and dress now drenched in the liquid below her, spinning again to see that some shape, formless and unyielding pressed against the dark behind her.
She ran, and there was nothing, no black water, no scent, no chasing menace, a new room, the scent of sage filled the area, and black salt lined pews where something or someone could have sat, illuminated under a single primitive torch towards the top of the chamber which opined and poured from its leather husk, a wilted dull cloud of gray smoke.
She looked up, a bronze cage was dangling from a chain composed of hair, woven from strands of all colors, containing a dying canary, a sentinel that would soon no longer bare the burden of watching, it pecked at it’s own flayed stomach, beak covered in blood, as it snatched at it’s organs and pulled back, dragging it’s entrails across it’s rusted wings and body, it was silent, save for it’s fluttering wings as it spat out its stomach, she looked, it turned it’s head.
It stared back.
She screamed as she turned and ran, careening against a wall of glass that shattered into jagged shards and fell fathoms below, standing with no aches, wounds, or blood, in another room of shifting colors, walls of resin that breathed, gauze covering their bulging. She explored, a feeling of dread, arresting and profound along with nausea took root. Above her hung sheets of obsidian from the ceiling on rusted chains, the black slate offering only the glow of distant torches, and a shadowy reflection of Kennedy, shrouded within the monolith.
She felt dizzy, stumbling, steadying herself against the now swinging slates, following the torches until the path split open into a forest, a starless canopy above her, whispers and chants spread across the pines, torches carried by unknown men adorned with antlers and blades, bobbed in the dark, casting perilous lights around her, she ran, branches whipping and scratching around her, the sound of hurried footsteps, charging towards her, she continued, heart beating, dress tearing, diadem lost in the brush. A door in a long clearing of wheat sat, attached to nothing, she ran, feeling the breath of something behind her once more closer, as she shoulder checked the door and fell through.
Weightless, irises turned to plates, body numb she rose, high unassailable walls on each side which held the esteemed sect of patrons all sitting on pews, constructed of misshapen driftwood. On each side from the darkness emerged, six men and six women, wearing masks of porcelain, standing in front of their primitive thrones. In front of her was a maze, each wall she saw was made of uneven angles, still unassailable in scale, there was no exit, nothing behind her, only the path ahead, unknown, and crude. She headed into the emptied and twisting corridors in silence except for her labored breathing.
At each turn, a flat wall made of slate, or a rusted shield prevented her progress, any path backwards was non existent, any path forwards barely observable. She heard a distant panting, a slobbering series of growls, each turn from each path, closer, than further, a distant wail, she turned again, hearing only silence, seeing a blinking red light from a camera. She didn’t have the time to contemplate it. She saw a small tunnel and crouch to fit through the snug space. A hand ripped at her ankle, a snarl echoed off the walls as she scratched the floor below trying to turn and escape.
What hovered above her was a large beast, her eyes unable to adjust, it’s outline that of a misshapen horned beast, soon recognizing it wore a helm with a taxidermy imprint of a bull, its face pulled into snarl, foam dripping out it’s mouth. Wearing furs that covered whatever laid below, reeking of filth and manure it violently spread her legs, salivating over her exposed slit. It took her with a horrifying lust.
It fed it’s cock into her, pinning her wrists down as she tried to pull away from it, remembering through the haze of smoke she ingested, that this was her performance, this must have been the patron Jude spoke of, her partner in art. She grimaced as head shook and huffed with a steamy breath, each thrust from the beast was punctuated with the chanting of nearby women, narrating in a dead language her ceremony of submission, the beast’s swollen crown and thick shaft stuffing her mercilessly, nothing more than a vessel for it’s needs. Kennedy shuddered as she felt the beast’s shoulders stiffen, her fingers raking the fur, as her body prepared itself.
Drool wobbled freely down the bestial mask, concentrating down into spindles that fell against her lips, every brutal thrust took her entirely, the beast triumphed, roaring as it’s viscous seed flooded her channel, as it pulled out, a wealth of ivory dollops of cum deftly fell unto the floor as the leering beast stood, its weight from its endowment free as it hung half hard against it’s thigh, its essence deposited, it watched her reddened slit heave and suck at emptiness. It turned, and left into a passage she hadn’t seen before.
She stood, with nowhere to go, and followed her hands clutching at her chest, her posture still slouched, thighs slick with emissions. She crossed her arms, and walked. The maze had ended, in the new room, across it was a primitive kiln, a dull heat radiating from it, it’s scornful light a dull orange that pushed out across the space nearby, covering the sand covered floor below, each lashing stalk of flame reflected on the porcelain masks of patrons in the corners.
She felt a hand on her back as she jumped, Jude spoke.
“Kennedy. Your patrons await.”
Kennedy, aching, body bruised, slick, sticky, filthy, looked at her admirers with complete adoration, they clapped, and nodded to each other, an abundance of exhalations and praise. They took off their masks of porcelain, wiped the soot and ash from their faces, some of them, so touched by the artful performance, had tears that carved through their ink blots of ash.
She interlaced her fingers around each other, taking in the entirety of the applause. She was proud, a feeling of accomplishment, the wretched bitterness that stockaded her, fled with each breath. She looked to Jude, who smiled with pride at her art.
Kennedy felt weak, her hands clenched into tiny fists, disbelief at her condition, woozy adrenaline pumping against her slowing heart. She couldn’t cough, she fell to her knees, her fingers clenching against her neck, feeling a needle’s puncture wound, as her body laid flat, eyes fluttering, still to the applause of those who praised her. Her gurgling pleas soon fell to silence as her body became immobile, nearby she saw Aspen next to Jude, a syringe falling from her hand, shattering on the ground below.
The patrons approached, they grabbed her, their many arms were like roots of flesh encapsulating her body, fingers clutching at her skin, as she laid limp, paralyzed. Barely able to turn her head, she saw the kiln and the fire that flowered and glowed within, the encroaching heat enveloping her, lip quivering, clenching her hand out into the dark, reaching towards her sister, Kennedy’s eyes closed as the snare of sleep and choking plumes of of smoke surrounding her, pulled her back into absolute darkness, a still nightmare of the void, staring back.
***
Aspen was in Jude’s gallery, her hands slowly adjusting the pose of a human sized doll. She ran her hands through a chalice filled with soot, steeping her fingers down to the bottom feeling the impossible lightness of the compact granules. She pinched deep to the bottom of the chalice and retrieved from the bottom a fragment of bone, holding it in front of her face, studying it, turning the shard, placing it in her palm, and squeezing hard enough to embed it in her skin, drawing blood down her pale wrist. With her other hand, she took a fist of soot and rubbed in on the expressionless porcelain face of the doll in front of her, studying it’s long blonde locks, it’s shapely form, it’s joints locked in a graceful position, as if praying, holding a silent vigil.
Her lips turned into a sneer, curling into a wide smile, as she placed the Minotaur’s helm over the doll’s head, tying around it’s neck a golden wire. Sighing, Aspen stepped back, Jude’s hand found the flat of her back, pushing her white hair away from her neck as he kissed it softly. Aspen looked onward, her voice crooked and wrathful.
“What a beautiful doll you made.”
The doll twitched.
THE END