She drove through the night, sleepdriving on highways of crushed centipedes, the soft crunching death ooze scarcely pacifying her fevered brain. Sometimes the stars fell like luminous hail on her windshield, sometimes the sky was a crushing lavender void through long stretches of moon-hushed night desert. Sometimes the road wound through perfidian nightmare forests choked by black leering trees, a cruel disdain for any mechanical sound interupting their endless solitude reaching the fevered pitch of a mad composer whose brain was rotting with syphilis and liver from drinking turpentine. Yet through all this, she blasted through, blithe, deranged. Radio blaring static at a deafening jet-engine volume. Her mind like knives in a school playground, renting random red gashes without cause or concern, every insight a senseless murder. Laughing as the radio static wooed her with the love songs of leperous schizophrenics and drooling homicidal lunatics.
Finally coming to a stop. Walking now along a razor-strewn path, her feet swollen and bloody, with nude and bloodied forms entwined in baffling hilarious contortions dotting the periphery, coma-perverse and emitting a putrid fragrance, the scent of deathflower on the side of the crushed cicada driveway. Not tempted to join them just yet, she pressed on like Marie Antoinette shitting cake for her peons and grinning disciples. Farmhouse just up ahead coming into focus between the gaps in the thick trees, mourning their incapability for vengeance, illuminated by haunt-blue ground lights, shining up and leaving the highest level of the house in black gothic shadow, like the graphite sketch of a blind man with a raging glioblastoma.
But once inside nothing was familiar: an amphitheater of self-replicating mirrors and screaming. Mirrors of a multitude of shapes and sizes, irrational, anarchic, impossible, to the simplest geometric forms, endless both up and down. She dared not to move, fearing she might fall through a gap in the glass flooring, falling through an abyss of mirrors that would sever her body into a million pieces of bloody meat, gravity’s blender in a matter of seconds. She watched stunned as the amphitheater of mirrors echoed her every mood or gesture, a cacophony of screaming murder victims, frenzied yet frozen in glass house reality. And then she touched herself, and realized she was also made of mirror. Not of flesh anymore, had she ever been? All screaming and nothing but glass. Hitting herself harder and harder, finally shattering, a ruptured aneurysm of need, bloodlust and release; all reflections at once, each of her infinite versions taking up shards to slice away, a macabre bloodbath that would never end.