Vertical Vertigo – the bleak sculpture in the decaying winter garden of the palace unnerved her though she could never remember why; chunks of her childhood were missing.
She did remember running it’s length, laughing, braids bobbing, counting the columns, rushing towards the green arbour at the end; then one day, she stumbled and . . .
She lay on her back, stockings ripped to shreds by the path, each tear dripping red, the scrap of blue sky above getting smaller as the sides of the sculpture pushed closer and closer to her as she screamed for her Nana as the world became black and she couldn’t breathe and . . .
© Lorraine & her frilly freudian slip