LUCILLE

THE LUNATIC

1.00am. Again room 303 with her bursts of madness. Tranquillizers obviously didn’t help. The situation was out of control. The security guard as a ghost bent down and stared nervously through the keyhole. White walls. White hair. Black hair roots. Black nails. Porcelain face. Clothes in black-white stripes. LUCILLE was admittedly beautiful. Refined in a french way. Appearing deceptively gentle as baby pink at first glance. Dangerously provocative a second later. Ferociously unpredictable at third look. What a visual illusion she was. Purring, hissing, sharpening her nails on the walls. Rubbing against the corners. She was simultaneously here and there, occupying the room everywhere. This was always the reaction of her pills violently overdosed, followed by vivid hallucinations and loud lonely conversations on her own. LUCIILE wasn’t crazy. Just her reality was unreal. 

 

Suddenly she turned, sniffed deeply, narrowed her eyes as a black feline and fondly approached the lock. "What’s new pussycat?" she whispered daringly.

 

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