She exists. In the background of your favorite book, or the edge of audibility in the music you're listening to, behind the tree in that painting you're looking at; there she is. She's dressed all in red, red hair, red lips, red nails. Her face is misshapen, eyes all wrong, teeth all too long, nose wrongside up. She's too far away to see much detail beyond the wrongness.
She's closer, now. She's wearing a mask, all white with red accents. She's closer. Her arms are moving. Closer. She's taking off the mask. Closer.
If only you couldn't see her, somehow. It might make her stop.
Closer.
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