Femme

I reach for the headphones, ready to rip them out.

“Please proceed upstairs.”

I straighten. We aren’t allowed upstairs. No part of the tour goes there. No guests. Not even the guides. No one has been up there since…since Gina lived here.

But my muscles move, out the door and up the stairs.

As I ascend, my view of the art in the foyer shifts.

The bright, abstract painting drips red like it really is Gina’s blood.

The impressionist work of a ship in a storming sea hides abstract faces with tortured eyes and horrible grimaces.

The oil portrait of Gina now seems to have sunken eyes, devoid of life.

Death, death, death. I try to suck air into my lungs, but nothing can penetrate the knot in my throat. The velvet rope meant to ward off the curious no longer cordons off the top of the stairs. One end lays haphazardly on the ground.

I glance down the hallway. The doors on either side, closed for years, remain locked tight, except one—Gina’s bedroom.

I walk through the doorway and finally gasp out a breath.

This room is truly untouched, seemingly from the moment Gina last stood here. The massive king bed is unmade, lacy and satin pillows strewn across the room like shrapnel. Fine leather and perfect designer garments lay wilting and crunchy on the floor and across chairs.

And somewhere beyond possibility, I can smell it. Her hazy, rose perfume. I shouldn’t know what Gina ever smelled like, so how is it that I do?

None of this is possible. None of it makes sense. It needs to end. I press the eject button on the device, but it doesn’t open.

I tug at the headphones, but they don’t budge.

My heartbeat speeds into a frantic pace as I tug and tug. Harder, until the pain is unbearable, until I fear ripping my skin. I need to stop this device. And like divinity has intervened, there’s a screwdriver on her nightstand.

“When you’re in the business of entertaining, everyone works to convince you that there is no suffering in your life. That you live the world’s dream life, so stay quiet and smile.” My fingers shake so hard the screwdriver skips on the hole of the tiny screws. Once, twice, until a sting cascades across my skin. I’ve cut myself, a twin mark on my fingertip to match the tiny fading scar on my palm. Not enough to bleed, but enough to get me shaking more. “I never stood a chance, especially after Carla died in a car accident two weeks after Oliver passed. My chance to reconcile was ripped away from me. I broke down completely. Doctors hypnotized me hoping I’d forget.” I get one screw off, the tiny, metal bit flying into the carpeting, likely never to be found again. I work on the second. “When I didn’t forget, show business fed off the pain, encouraged me to farm it for performances.” She sighed. “Or keep it stuffed down with pills.”

The last screw falls off the back, the plastic digging deep under my nails as I flip it off.

There’s no tape in here.

It shouldn’t be working at all.

“Fuck,” I mutter.