a simple twist of id and she's back on the floor in a flying flash, the phantoms in her mind large and real, in a less ghost story and more realistic fear, and she shivers despite her better judgement, because nothing seems to be happening, like the world is a clock thats stopped. she's curled in a corner and she can't stop her body from nervous shaking and twitching and she wonders if she's doped up and why her phone rings at 1:12 and where teddy comes from and where she goes...she's deceiving me and she's singing songs from the 1780s and the 1980s back and forth, confusing language and melody like confusing 7up and sprite and nobody can tell her that she's wrong on this occasion, as her voice cracks and breaks all over the scale, her fingers have been clutching false security blankets for days and her mind has been full of music that belongs to others but seemed to pertain to her, somehow, bending more towards her likeness than anyone else's. she turns around when the doors slam and then she puts her hands on her head because the doors aren't slamming and her phone keeps ringing silently, telling her to run and she coughs and coughs and digs through boxes of memories and lives discarded and forgotten for the key to the little door in the corner of her mind, to open the floodgate and turn back the hands of time, to escape from hell, where she resides, like garcin, hoping for acceptance from some inez character of much more subtlety. she slips across the floor and her head explodes in a bout of stars as ghosts and worlds and people spring out of a tiny door and she can't help but wonder what is happening that makes everything like bad cable reception. she hears fractions of what they say, but there are only two real people anyway, two and the mouse, and the mouse is dead, earthworms eating away his once lovely cheekbones to the bone. she's stumbling down the hall, praying that one of her tormentors will let her go, somehow let go, stop using the same words and give her the lock to put all the ghosts and things back into the little door, pandora's door. a simple twist of the id and she's on top of the bed, legs and arms like pretzels and thinking she's winning, but it's all an illusion, a big, ugly illusion.