If you could chose anywhere to wake up tomorrow, where would you wanna open your eyes and meet the morning? Father figure Frank called in the middle of the night, he whispered with a voice filled with unanswered questions. Filled with guilt and anxiety.
I know the answer. Its a vague and unfulfilling one, but an answer non the less.
Louis owned a spectacular house, maybe he still did until he was brought back to life and then killed once more.Louise Dahl-Wolfie would have made such a beautiful painting of him had she known him like I did. L walking
endless corridors, mirrors covered with black fabric in the end - his face had lost its beauty and L hated all things
whom lacked beauty, he hated them above murder, torture and war. He hated ugliness. So he hid, like a mad man in a house big enough
for fifty people. His young adonis stayed with him, took care of him and helped him keep his substance abuse under control.
Under control for them meant satisfied, and fulfilled.
I adored that house, the parties held there were the best ones in Britain. Models, actors, poets and other idiots
drank Louis champagne and smoked cigars until night became day. And in the middle of it all was I. A young blond freckled little girl,
not ever a word spoken but still there. Watching, and thinking that in that room - I wasn't that different.
Iris never cared if I came home smelling like gin, and with evidence of wild nights in the shape of white powder on my expensive dresses.
She never cared. But she made sure the dream was interrupted to early, she woke me up and forced me out of it prematurely.
If I could run anywhere, I would run to that house.