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And this is why you should never go off your meds without your Doctor's approval! THE MUSICAL BOX by Eric Ian Steele Laura opened the window as far as it would go. A cold,
salty breeze blasted her. Down below, the limestone houses glistened from the
recent shower. The town shimmered, freshly-moulded by some master-potter.
Beyond it, a sheer drop delineated the coastline. Breakers thrashed at the
water’s edge. They ignored the corroded metal railings that served as a flimsy
barrier. The wind carried its burden of barnacles and kelp into
her nostrils. She laughed at its ineffectual ferocity. Above, seagulls called
for her to join them. They clacked their beaks as they danced, suspended in
midair. She leaned out further. Were they talking to her? Was
there some intelligence behind their smiles? She balanced over the ledge, her
feet now off the floor. Her midsection rested on the narrow window ledge. She
felt suspended between two worlds - air above, gravity below. Then suddenly she overbalanced. A cold fist clenched
her chest. But it was too late - she was falling. “Laura!” Werner shouted. He hauled her back inside.
His lips grew taut across his pallid, angular face. "What were you doing?
You nearly fell!” He slammed the windows shut. She marvelled at opaque
patches of dust speckled across the panes. On the windowsill, the corpses of
dozens of tiny flies lay unattended. "I was okay," she said, brushing back a
stray lock of hair. Lying had become part of her everyday existence. It allayed
suspicion, cumbersome explanations and trips to the doctor. "You should be more careful," the old woman
said. She filled the doorway, a coarse headscarf wrapped tightly around her
head, a shock of bright lipstick smudged across her weathered lips. "We’re fine, Mrs. Lovett," Werner attempted
to smile. "She just leaned out a little too far." Mrs. Lovett murmured in agreement. "Been meaning
to nail them shut," she shuffled around the room toward a dressing table.
"This was my daughter’s room, once, when we still lived here.” She lifted
up a small, round musical box. “This was hers. Now I keep it for
decoration." Atop the box, a tiny porcelain dancer whirled in a
frozen prayer. Laura noticed the old woman’s knuckles were swollen with
arthritis like onions. "Can I ask why you want to rent?" the old
woman asked. Her grey, mackerel eyes glared at them, surprisingly bright.
"You both look like you’ve got money." "We’re only here for the rainy season,” Werner
remarked. “We just want to be alone together, somewhere small, quiet." "I see," the woman gave a lecherous smile.
Laura frowned. Did she somehow know the real reason why they were there? But
how could she? "Let me see!” a shrill voice piped. A
carrot-topped boy of nine appeared behind the old woman. "Hush!" she scolded. The old woman swatted
him, tugging on his ear in the roughest manner. The boy gasped. "Children
should be seen and not heard!" "Please, it’s all right," Laura stepped
forwards, the words flew from her mouth. She immediately regretted them. The boy grinned as the old woman let go. She saw the
contempt in his face. Her outburst had been ineffective, but had revealed her
own weak emotions. Now she had made a fool of herself before both of them. The
battle lines had been drawn without her knowing it, and she had already lost. "My daughter’s child," the old woman pushed
the boy out of the room. "She never taught him any manners. Too busy out
enjoying herself. Had to raise him on my own." She swivelled back to face Laura with a hideous smirk
of. "You have to be firm. Otherwise they’ll walk all over you. Maybe, when
you have one of your own, you‘ll understand." Laura wondered if this was some kind of insult. She
decided to probe the old woman to see if she had any weaknesses of her own. "Where is your daughter?" she asked. "Dead,” the old woman said. Laura felt her heart
stop beating, but Mrs. Lovett seemed not even to care. "She fell out of
that window there," she added in a dull, flat voice. “On drugs, or
whatever young people take these days. She didn’t know what she was doing. She
didn’t care. Didn’t think of anyone but herself.” “We’ll be careful,” Werner said. He glanced at Laura.
It was a stern look. She suddenly wondered whether she had unwittingly caused
this unpleasant situation. “Rent’s due on Tuesdays,” Mrs. Lovett shambled toward
the door. “And if you’re going to be here longer than a month, I’d be obliged
if you let me know.” She was grateful when the old women left. Laura sagged onto the bed. Once again, she had ruined
another potentially perfect day. A bitter rush of shame stung her already hot
cheeks. “She’s a character,” Werner said, not sensing her
embarrassment. He chuckled as he sat down beside her. “Did you see her
make-up?” Laura nodded. The old woman’s fur stole was forty
years out of fashion. But it had reminded her of the fur coat her mother always
wore like a badge of pomposity. Memories flooded back. She remembered endless arguments
with teachers who suspected there was something wrong with her. The long chats
she they told her mother how she often wandered school corridors in a daydream,
forgetting her lessons, only to be found staring at a painting. School was an endless series of punishments - for late
homework, for forgetting the right sports costume, for fighting with other
pupils. They had interrogated her. But how could she express to a teacher only
concerned with mathematics of grammar the delicious pleasure she gained by
simply looking at motes of dust, or wandering across the tiled pattern of a
hallway floor. Her mother had ignored their concerns. She encouraged
her daughter’s artistic skills. She told Laura that there were plenty of people
out there who were jealous of her because she was special. Finally her mother
had tried to educate her at home. But her dalliances with men and alcohol
always came first. Left alone, it became easier to slip away into that
fantasy world. Her mathematic equations lapsed into meaningless doodles.
Paintings in art history books took her away to imaginary places so abstract
that she could not remember them when she returned. Gradually, her senses grew
so acute that she no longer needed stimulation. She could slip away there any
time she wanted. "So what do you think?" Werner asked. "About the room or the Addams family?" she
asked. He always said her sense of humour set her apart from the others. He grinned. She admired and hated his patience. He
cleared his throat. “What were you really trying to do at the window?" The same wayward lock of hair fell across her face.
"I was just leaning out to get a better look." He scanned her face.
"I’m not suicidal,” she reassured him. “I just leaned out too far.
It was an accident. I am allowed to have accidents.” He brushed her hair from her face. “You scared me,
that’s all.” They unpacked in silence. She watched Werner open his
suitcase. Inside, his clothes lay neatly folded, underwear so white it was
blinding. He laid out the clothes in the dresser drawers. The rough texture of
his hands fascinated her. They contrasted with the pressed white linen. The
creases in his jeans as he bent down reminded her of set squares. The window
cast a rectangle of light on the carpet. She took a step back, out of the
pattern. It seemed more perfect that way. "Are you all right?" he asked. She nodded
and opened her own case. The contents spilled out everywhere - a sea of briefs,
bras, skirts and blouses that exploded across the bed. “I need my tablet,” she said to Werner. She took Chlorazil three times a day from an anonymous
bottle safely tucked inside her purse. Each grey tablet went off like a reality
bomb in her head. A necessary evil, because without them she would only be five
minutes into a conversation when she would be giving herself away, hinting at
the fantasy life going on inside her, as though it was something to be proud
of. When she was seventeen, a man whom her mother had
invited back one night found her passed out in the hallway from malnutrition.
He was a kind man, so he called the police. She was placed with social
services. Then the therapy started. A psychiatrist. Then when that didn’t work,
pills. She knew all their names. Thorazine, Haloperidol, Fluphenazine, the
dreaded Permitil which sounded so inoffensive but made her bones feel like
paper and her head like a lead balloon. Werner was a junior physician when she met him.
Initially he was supposed only to feed her. But they found they had much in
common. They loved art, paintings, classical music. One day, Werner revealed
his rather unconventional belief; she could be cured, he believed, not by
drugs, but by re-establishing her self-control. By slow degrees, he was
convinced that by conditioning her mind, she would be able to fight off the
urge to create an imaginary reality. Somehow they had become lovers. It was very unethical.
She hadn’t meant for it to happen. It was even more unethical when they were
married. It cost Werner his job. At the time it was quite a
scandal. He was stuck off by the GMC. But years later, memories had faded.
Werner had been reinstated this last year. Of course they’d had to move. He had
suggested Whitby, the town of her birth. He told her this would be her testing
ground, where she would prove if Werner’s theories were correct. * * * That night, they lay together. Lara fiddled with the
lunar surface of the woodchip on the wall. There was a pattern in the tiny
flecks. It looked like an old man’s smiling face. "Are you awake?" he asked. She turned to
face him. They kissed. They didn’t need to say anything else. They made love, and for once she felt in tune with her
surroundings - unable to think, locked into the moment of their embrace. Werner
was her silver cord that connected her to reality. It felt good. If she kept it
up she might not even need the Chlorazil. But that was sheer fantasy. Eventually, they came to a gasping conclusion. He
kissed her, then gave up on that. Seconds later, his eyelids flickered. He was
asleep. A single chime sounded in the darkness. It had come from the musical box on the dressing
table. She watched as the dancer shook for a moment with a tinny reverberation,
then grew still once more. II Werner was still sleeping when she rose next morning.
She donned her nightgown, then went to make coffee. A small kitchen sat at the
end of the cold, bleak landing; an irregular room, all angles and sloping
surfaces. A single squat table waited for her, crowned by a
melancholy vase of plastic flowers. A note on the refrigerator door exclaimed:
"COFFEE, TEA IN CUPBOARD. MILK IN FRIDGE. WASH CUPS AFTER USE!” A single window overlooked an overgrown back yard. In
one corner, a black cat sat in a box, nursing its kittens. Laura watched it
lick its offspring with an affectionate pink tongue. A bang made her jump. It came from far below, followed
by heavy footsteps that thudded up the stairs toward her. Laura froze. She felt annoyed at the intrusion upon
this perfect moment. Then the thought of meeting someone filled her with dread.
She didn’t feel like saying hello. She hoped whoever it was would pass her by.
But she knew people had an unfortunate tendency to want to engage her in
conversation. A bizarre head ascended the stairs. It bore a crimson
halo of red hair. It belonged to a man in his twenties who wore a long tweed
coat, obviously an artistic type. She remained motionless. He halted at the
door to another bedsit. Then he turned to fix her with grey eyes. She felt her
heart beating. But instead of talking, he simply stepped inside and
disappeared. She breathed out with relief. The head popped back out. "Make us a cuppa, will
you? Tea. One sugar.” The door slammed. She hesitated, unsure what to do.
Then she did the only thing she could. She made him a cup of tea. "Name’s Ritchie," the man said when he
re-emerged. "Mrs. Lovett’s great-nephew. The old lady? I take it she
didn’t mention me." Laura nodded. "She doesn’t like me. But she has to put me up
every now and then on account of the family," he smirked. "What’s
your name?" "Laura," she replied. "I’m with my
husband." Why had she mentioned that? He grinned. Evidently he
already knew she was weird. “Why are you here then?” he asked. "We’re on holiday,” she lied. “Actually, I was
born here. Werner’s was born in Germany." "German. Cool. I studied Nietzsche at
university," Ritchie said. “Miserable sod.” She stared into her cup. "Well, my dissertation calls. Nice to meet
you," he said, then returned to his room. He eyed her before closing the door.
His smile broadened, then he disappeared altogether. III Later that morning, Werner went food shopping. He knew
she hated supermarkets – all that close proximity to people. Instead, she took
advantage of being alone and headed out onto the promenade. Whitby was smaller than she remembered. The tiny stone
harbour jutted out into a cold, cruel sea. Expensively-priced fish and chip
bars lay sandwiched between tacky gift shops. An icy breeze whipped at her,
calling her further out. Briny spume filled her nostrils. Breakers soaked the
hem of her skirt as they crashed over the sea wall. She leaned out over the
rusted railings at the pier’s edge. Below, muddy water obscured a thin strip of beach that
was just visible. She felt the waves begging to take her. She thought of Werner. For him, she had neglected her
dream-world, allowing herself to be taken to mundane places, to the tiny
squalid boarding room where she was the object of scrutiny by narrow minds. She
felt like a rare, exotic fish trapped in a tank way too small. She felt
unremarkable. If she died here, who would remember her? "Lean any further out, you’ll fall." She spun around. It was Ritchie. She pulled herself back onto dry land. She had indeed
been balancing over the rail. "I’m, fine," she lied again. "You looked ready to jump," he said. She felt deflated; lying was useless. Somehow he had
sensed her secret desires. It made them appear tawdry. “Were you following me?” she grew angry. “There’s nothing else in this town except the pier. I
saw you walking down here. You looked a bit upset. Don’t worry about the
jumping lark. It’s understandable in this place." A short time later she found herself in one of the
town’s many greasy restaurants. They must have looked an odd couple. She was
thirty-five, conservatively dressed. He was so much younger, so much more
bizarre. Yet she felt flattered by his attention. Normally she would have
frozen at his offer of dinner, but he had wrong-footed her on the pier. She had
not taken any Chlorazil this morning. Perhaps that was the reason. "Let me pay," she dived for her purse. "No, no," he said. "I may be a student
but at least I can buy a meal for a lady." He grabbed her purse and was about to hand it back,
when he caught sight of the Chlorazil. He read the label. “It’s for migraines,” she lied. “I know what it is,” he said. “What have you got?
Depression? Some bullshit clinical disorder? I studied psychology so I know
what I’m talking about." She felt her face reddening. He was just a young man.
What could he know? But he had found her out. She didn’t know why she told him. Maybe she was sick
of hiding. Maybe she just wasn’t thinking straight. “Schizophrenia,” he repeated. He leaned forward,
intense. “Borderline,” she added. “I don’t believe in mental illness. And I don’t
believe you need those pills clogging up your veins." He lowered his
voice, conspiratorially. “What you’ve got, it’s just a convenient name
psychoanalysts give it, because they don’t understand what it is.” She laughed. “And you do?” "Schizophrenia isn’t an illness,” Ritchie said.
“It’s a gift – a transitional stage in human consciousness. You perceive things
that aren’t there because you see things everyday people can’t. You make
connections they miss." “I’ve never heard it called that before.” She stared
at her grease-covered plate. A tiny ribcage lay there, part of the backbone of
her fish. It made her oddly sad. “That may go down very well at University. But
not in hospital.” "Listen,” he grew excited, ignored her. “The
American Indians called people who had visions shamans. They believed they were
seeing something we couldn’t. All throughout history, madness has been
synonymous with creativity. Most of the great poets would be declared insane
today; Poe, Baudelaire…" “So I’m a poet now?” she smiled. Trying to diffuse a
situation with humour was another trick she had learnt. "Do you have visions?" She stirred the few remaining peas on her plate with a
fork. "I’m just saying the mind can interpret reality
in different ways. You see things that ordinary people can’t. And if reality is
what we perceive, then who’s to say we can’t change it?" "I can’t change reality," she said. But she
was no longer sure. Secretly, didn’t she want to believe him? It was the stuff
of nonsense. But hadn’t scientists discovered something about perceived
reality? She had heard about an experiment involving a cat in a box that said
it was only there when it was being observed. But that was just a theory, and
she had never really understood it. "What’s to say our imagination isn’t the gateway
to a new place – another dimension? What’s to say that what happens in there
doesn’t really take place – at least at some level?” The idea appealed to her. Who wouldn’t want to change
reality? How many times had she wished her dreams could become real, if only
she dreamed them hard enough? Perhaps her imaginary life was real. If it
existed in her imagination, didn’t that mean that there was a possibility that
it did actually exist, somewhere? “If we can imagine it then it’s real.” She rubbed the
bridge of her nose. “You’re giving me a headache.” “Just promise me you’ll stay off the Chlorazil for a
few days," he said. “See what happens. If I’m wrong, if noting happens,
then go back to normal.” "Werner says I still need the drugs," she
said. “They help me to control it.” “They help you suppress it,” Ritchie said. But the thought of Werner had suddenly jolted her back
to reality. What would he think if he saw them talking like this? What if he
found out she had considered suicide again - if that was what she had done? She
no longer knew anything about herself any more. Werner was her only hope. But
he could also have her committed if he wanted. She jumped to her feet, leaving
the sickly basket of oily haddock behind. “I have to go," she headed for the door. “You haven’t finished your fish!” Ritchie called after
her. She ignored him. He shrugged and tucked into her haddock. IV Werner was unhappy. He demanded to know here she had
been. Didn’t she care that he was worried? Was she trying to give him a heart
attack? She told him she had been out walking, which was partially true. But
then she saw the suspicion in his gaze. "All right,” she said. “I met Ritchie – Mrs.
Lovett’s nephew. We had dinner.” “That must have been nice," he said in uncertain
tones. "He knows about me," she blurted out.
"He saw the Chlorazil and figured it out." “And Mrs. Lovett?” he asked. “Does she know yet?” “I’m sure he wouldn’t tell her,” she said. But was
she? Suddenly the full impact of her stupidity announced its arrival. “If she finds out, we’re out of here,” Werner said,
defeated. “Then we’ll find somewhere else," she reassured
him. But that little schoolboy look had taken over him again. He sank back
on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "There is nowhere else," he said. "I
didn’t take a month off work. I quit to be with you. I used up the last of our
money for the deposit. I thought I could get another job while we’re here. But
it’s harder than I thought." She let his words sink in. She relied upon him. He
couldn’t quit his job. "I might have to try somewhere bigger, a city.
Newcastle, maybe. They have a big hospital there.” The city. She hated the city more than she hated it
here. All those people. Anonymous. Huddled together in quiet madness. She fell
down beside him. “I’ve mucked it all up,” she said. He brushed her hair. "Maybe it’ll be all right,”
he said. “Maybe he won’t say anything." She stared across the room, absently feeling him touch
her hair. The musical box sat directly opposite on the dressing table. The
dancer’s face regarded her with a serene smile, but remained motionless. V Werner went to a pizza parlour to get supper. He said
they deserved a treat. She found herself alone in the company of the musical
box. She wound it up using the key on its base. The happy dancer swivelled on
her podium. She remembered the tune from a Disney cartoon. She wished she could
be like that tiny figure. Not the selfish, degenerate thing she was. She examined her reflection in the mirror. She looked
drained, weary. The dancer stopped turning. She knew what she had to
do. She stooped knocking when Ritchie opened his door.
West Coast heavy rock blared out behind
him. He looked drunk. No longer the mysterious stranger, now just another
imperfect human being. "I told Werner what happened,” she said,
determined to rob him of his power. “He thinks it would be better if we didn’t
tell Mrs. Lovett.” For a moment, Ritchie appeared lost for words, then
swaggered back into his room. She hesitated before following him. It was a long
time since she had been in another man’s room. It was a messy, typical student
bedsit. Swirling, psychedelic pop posters hung from the walls. Cans of lager
piled high alongside old newspapers on the coffee table. "Sorry if I embarrassed you,” he said. “Want a
drink?” "No, thanks. You were right about one thing,
though. The Chlorazil. I’ve stopped taking it, and I’ve never felt
better." He gulped from another can on the sofa. She thought of
Werner. She sat beside him. He stiffened as she took his hand within her own.
"It’s important to Werner and me that nobody knows why we’re here. We
don‘t have much money. We need to know we can trust you, Ritchie." She pressed up closer against him so that their knees
were touching. She wanted to understand more about his theory. She didn’t know
how to ask at the moment. Perhaps in time that would come. “Can we trust you?” He snatched back his hand. "So you’re selling
out?" he sneered. "You want to be with your husband? Safe.
Controlled. Like everyone else?" His face hardened. She let him go, not
quite understanding what had happened. “Did auntie tell you about her daughter?" “She told me she died,” Laura breathed. “I’ll tell you what happened. She was a free spirit.
But then she bought into this whole do-as-you’re-told lifestyle thing. That’s
what killed her. My auntie killed her, with her do-this and don’t-do-that."
Laura felt a familiar cold fist clutch her innards.
She backed away. He had seemed so nice. Instead he was unstable. "It strangled her, Laura. Strangled. If that‘s
how you want to be, fine. Go ahead. Join the human race." Terrified. She backed out of the room. He slammed the
door in her face. Moments later the music jumped in volume. Werner returned home to find her red-faced on the bed.
He asked if she was all right, but even the hot shower couldn’t was the
tearstains from her cheeks. They ate their pizza in silence. It was cold,
rubbery. The tomatoes tasted plastic. But the foulness wasn’t in the food, she
realized as she watched Werner take another untroubled bite. It was in her, and
there was nothing she could do about it. VI Next morning, she took a walk down the pier. She gazed
across the grey ocean. She wished she could fly across it and reach some
distant shore where she could find happiness. Instead, she wandered the
streets, hoping the bustle would take her mind off herself. It didn’t. When she
got home, Werner was fuming. She had forgotten about the time again. "It’s been six hours. I nearly called the
police," he slammed the door shut behind her. He held a note in his hand.
"Do you know what you’re doing to me?" "What’s that?" she asked. "It’s from Mrs. Lovett. She wants us out. Thanks
to your friend!" She froze. She couldn’t believe Ritchie would have
told on them. He was naďve, foolish, petulant even - but an informer? She
stared at the musical box, letting Werner’s words drone over her. She wanted to
hold it in her arms. "It says you keep leaving the front door open,
that she’s seen you going out in the morning and you look like you don’t know
where you are. She thinks you have some kind of problem." "That still doesn’t mean Ritchie told her,"
she said. "Why are you sticking up for him?" his voice
rose. She lowered her gaze. Maybe she just wanted to believe
he was different. Werner’s face set. He flung open the door, then
stormed outside. Terror seized her. Did this mean they would argue? She
ran after him, only to see Ritchie answer the door. Werner was a good three
inches taller than Ritchie. He regularly exercised. Before the younger man
could even speak, Werner grabbed his lapels. “Hey, piss off!” Ritchie spat. "What did you say!" Werner pinned him up
against the doorway. “Laura, he’s a nutcase!” Ritchie yelled. "Werner,” she breathed, unable to do anything
more. She stood rigid as a statue. “You nasty little shit!” Werner yelled. “You get a
kick out of this? Ruining people’s lives?” “Excuse me!” A cold, iron voice made them all freeze. Mrs. Lovett filled the corridor, headscarf wrapped
tightly around her head. She weighed them up with dark, gimlet eyes. Werner let Ritchie go. The old woman held up a small bottle of pills. The
Chlorazil. How had she gotten them? But then Laura remembered leaving them in
the kitchen that morning. Forgetfulness. A side-effect of her not taking her
medication. "I want you both out by Sunday. You can take your
pills. I’ve run a boarding house for twenty years. I know when my guests are no
good." Werner turned to face Laura with a hard, accusing
stare. "Sunday morning," Mrs. Lovett reiterated,
then descended the staircase out of sight. Werner brushed past her into their room. The door
slammed shut. Not knowing what to do, Laura rushed up to Ritchie. “Are you all
right?” she fussed. But he waved her aside. "Get lost," he moaned.
"She’ll be mad at me for this. I‘ll be lucky to keep the room." Then
he too disappeared inside. She stood there alone, stunned. Was this her fault?
Somehow, it had happened. She had ruined everything. It seemed to be the only
thing she was good at. All because she had forgotten her bottle of pills. Slowly, she slunk to the ground and wept. VII The base was cylindrical, surrounded by tiny wooden
columns, giving it the appearance of a sort of temple. The dancer pirouetted
atop its domed roof, long flowing skirt flailing behind her, one leg raised in
a pirouette, both arms held out, hands cupped. As to why, the box gave no
explanation. Laura sat alone with the toy. Her tears had long since
dried. Werner sat downstairs in the communal lounge, refusing to speak to her.
She had ruined it all. She had analysed the day’s events in her mind over and
over. They should put her away, where she could do no more damage. The
imperfection in her life was within her. She was to blame. There was no escape. Out at sea, distant thunder rumbled. A shrill wind
rattled the windows in their frames. Raindrops swept across the glass. A storm was
rising. Across the pier, dull lightning flickered. One -Two - Three - Four - Five – she counted, knowing that
next time the storm would be closer. The wind was blowing inland. She wound up the musical box, deriving some comfort
from its chimes. After an instant, thunder growled again. One - Two - Three - Four - A deafening peel ripped through the heavens. She
hugged the musical box closer. Downstairs, Mrs. Lovett shook the drops from her
umbrella. "Blow the shingles off the roof," she told
Ritchie as he descended the stairs. Werner buried his head in the newspaper. Ritchie
passed. “Uh, do you want a tea? I’m making one.” Werner sighed, dropped his newspaper. “Sure,” he said.
Just like that, the apology had been made. Mrs. Lovett too, it seemed, was in a pardoning mood.
“I’ve been thinking,” she told him. “If there are no more incidents, you can
stay. It’s only a prescription, after all.” “Thanks,” Werner replied. “Storm’s really getting
up,” Ritchie said, handing him a cuppa. One - Two - Three - Laura’s heart skipped. Electricity vibrated the very
air of the little flat. She rocked silently. The musical box hummed its tune,
reminding her of a world she had never had. How she envied the dancer. It spun
on its pedestal, alone. One - Two - The roof trembled. Lightning so close now that all the
lights flickered on and off. Everything was closing in. Now the real prospect
of losing Werner loomed, and with it, her sanity. How much more would he
tolerate? How long would his patience last? The dancer spun. Laura got to her feet, mimicking its
posture – needing something, anything to distract her mind from its own inner
workings. She whirled across the carpet, dancing. The room spun past her eyes.
The building groaned – One. “Jesus!” Ritchie shouted. “We just got hit!” Mrs. Lovett raised her eyes. It seemed the crash had
merged with a scream. “Did you hear someone?” she asked. “I’d better check on her,” Werner said. They followed him upstairs. At their door, he got no
reply. His anxious face persuaded Mrs. Lovett to produce her spare key. Seconds
later, they were in. “Laura?” Werner called. The window lay open. Wind tore at the curtains. He ran
to the ledge. It was a long moment before he could bring himself to look out.
She wasn’t there. He checked the bathroom next door. Ritchie checked his
room. The kitchen. Nothing. “She couldn’t have come downstairs,” Ritchie said.
“We’d have seen her.” It was impossible. The door was locked. But his wife
wasn’t there. In fact, it seemed she wasn’t anywhere. On the dressing table, the musical box chimed. Werner
hadn’t even noticed before that it was playing. The dancer staggered to a halt,
then grew still. He picked it up. The tiny dancer leaned into the wind,
hopeful, elated. Then he swiftly put it down and backed away. Fear rose in Werner’s throat. His mind reeled. There
was no rational explanation for his terror. Surely, it was coincidence, but
from the top of the musical box, Laura smiled back at him. She danced on her pedestal, caught forever in a single
moment of glorious perfection. Frozen, perfect, alone.
“What is it?” Mrs. Lovett asked. She drew closer to inspect the figure. Then
she too gasped in shock.