The Rabbit Hole

The steam from the coffee fogs the glasses, like mirrors. Hot showers and all.

She doesn’t need the glasses. She wears them like armor hiding the red sheen of her eyes behind flat plate looking glass.

I use the key from the envelope.

She arrived here before me, even though I am 5 minutes early. A cup of tea that she indicates is for me rests on the table in front of her; the words “Drink Me” written in dark ink on the white paper strung to the tea bag. She is easy to talk to, but reserved. She holds back her reality, because she thinks others are unworthy. All the strangers parading around this busy coffee shop seem to pick up on this, as I am the only person for almost 10 feet in any direction from her.

The address is easy enough to find. Three flights of stairs; door double locked. The door says, “Open Me.”Black writing on red paper; Alice in Wonderland style.

The conversation is businesslike. The autumn in the air isn’t quite as cold as her tone when she discusses details. Beautiful, but like an angel’s statue. Cold and unmoving. The promise of redemption, but not a redeemer.

The music is loud enough to put the point across. Red waves of sound in a black room. Closing the door behind me, I see the familiar, painfully perfect handwriting on the back side of the door. “Lock Me.”

Her suit is crisp, pressed immaculately. Beautiful lines, clearly not American, but not Italian as so many moneyed individuals are prone to flaunting these days. Bernini, Versace, Cannoli, whatever; it’s all wrapping paper for a present no one wants.

I follow the path of the only light in the house down the hallway; closed doors to the left, blank wall to the right. Down the rabbit hole, the red carpet spills out like a tongue down the hallway; rippled in places like an open mouth kiss. Entering the bedroom at the end of the hall, I can see the source of the light to my right. It’s not so much the bare bulb hanging over her head, but the white babydoll nightgown she has on reflecting the glow. Above the back of her head I can see the words scrawled in lipstick on the mirror, blood red on blade silver, articulated curves giving way to heroin-straight lines, making the letters “FUCK ME…”

Business concluded, she hands me an envelope. She tells me everything I need is inside; time, place, etc. She looks at me, emphasizing her next words by taking her glasses off as she addresses me, “You musn’t be late. It’s a very important date.”

She’s finishing the tail of the “e” falling off into bullet holes of red, dot. Dot. Dot. I can barely see her face in the mirror. The rings and curls cascading around the sides of her head leave her eyes as burning augers melting her reflection. The lipstick tube tumbles out of her hand, falling in slow motion, never quite reaching the sink.

Her whole legs are dipped in snow. The platforms on her heels are white gloss; the kind of faux leather that shines like a holy relic. Stockings coat her legs like icicles. My gaze climbs those stalks while the beat of the music pounds its way into the crotch of my jeans.

She lays the money on the table.

“What are you waiting for?”

She snaps her fingers and the waiter appears at our side to slide the money off the table; his ears are big enough to hear the snap from the bar that he immediately retreats to. She stands, hands smoothing the skirt back into conformity before stepping out from behind the table.

All that ice on her legs is warm to the touch. Tracing the stockings up the back of her thighs, I can’t see the garter straps until my fingers touch them. Lifting the gown; there they are in bone white. Rivulets of milk running down her cheeks across the angels where her legs join her ass. She put the panties on under the garters. I figured this might happen.

The click of my knife coming open snaps her eyelids apart and rocks her gently forward for a moment. I slide my left hand in between those hot and cold pillars and slowly wind my fingers up in white lace; ruffles.

Spider web threads.

I twist until my hand is caught and the fabric is pulling tight, pressing, pulling, squeezing her flesh like a ripe peach with the skin bursting and the juices starting to run.

And run, they do.

The knife blade slides easily through all that bound up silken spiders thread. Slice, slice, back and forth, and her covering falls away in shreds. She’s starting to shake.

Now the ice begins to melt; running and running and running. The trickle turns into a flood. Giant snow tears, threatening to fill the room, it seems all that ice should have melted by now… but it is just soaked.

She walks out the door of the coffee shop, crisply. Her shoes snap across the ground with the same staccato that pervades her body in every movement. Clean, controlled; cold.

The violence of it all makes her hands slip and she destroys the carefully scribed letters on the mirror as she tries to stop herself from hurtling into it and through the looking glass. Soon, the M, the E, and all the little bullet holes are running with red; smeared by her dirty fingers across that mercury surface. Cries and screams are battering at the door to Wonderland; the penance, the price… the toll. Until, at long last, that rabbit hole opens up and we both go tumbling tumbling down. Striking the floor, sliding, and coming to a sopping halt.

I have strict instructions from the packet.

“Leave Me.”

I do. I leave this Ice Queen of Hearts lying there melting; sodden and sobbing and lost in the torrent that only she feels. I get dressed, close the door and leave the key.

And I never return to Wonderland.