“Why should one feel it to be intolerable unless one had some kind of ancestral memory that things had once been different?” George Orwell

And everything he ever thought began showing up right there on the screen. Whether it was placed by his hand or some other dark shadow in the background, he could no longer know. Her star began shining through each frame immediately. The torture of her life acted with such intensity it became impossible to distinguish who she was anymore. Shattered to pieces she seemed to voice things with no conscious recollection. She became all he could focus on, every idea that passed by his mind was acted out by her, they became inseparable. They would hold each other falling asleep, travel through their dreams together, float along stardust through the facade of this life. She screamed her way into America’s consciousness, trapped in that house, entrapping the minds of countless children in the process. The house she was made by, the house that became alive, The House That Bled became the idea that created what she would be for the rest of her existence. It was his first memory from his childhood that he created, walls that bled. It haunted his dreams as he fell asleep, distracted him as he looked out at life. When she was lying on that floor, screaming he didn’t think she was acting anymore. When the cats walked by and the moon lit the house and the power died as the flickering candles were extinguished her screams seemed to escape from the center of the trapped earth. Down a long corridor of mirrors her screams echo, shattering everything. The cracked mirror is littered across the floor in a trail of blood. Her body contorts with each cats movement, her mind was splitting apart and her eyes couldn’t focus. He looked out through her eyes, he was trapped inside of her. The Movie was really what was constantly being filmed in the shadows, but he didn’t know where the footage was going, or who was editing it. I remember holding your hand as I was dying…you even took that from me…I’ve never taken anything, never, I created you…but his words became nothing, even he couldn’t believe them anymore. The helicopter was above and the fire and the screams were everywhere and what they all believed went up into smoke and disappeared out into the fog and the screams of the people were muted and the claws still holding onto that burning book, the book which was being written with each flaming soul it captured, suddenly opened up to him. The image he had of himself disappears as he walks into those burning pages and tries to answer why. She doesn’t care because the end is always the same. There is some light he can still distinguish out there somewhere. There is still some way he can direct that book from taking hold, or maybe he was just gripped with some false hope. As he walked through that burning book, he couldn’t help but succumb to the flames.