Balloons drift limply to the floor; the party decorations hanging haphazard throughout the house. A dazed girl in a torn party dress wanders about, wincing at the loud music. She ignores a platter of congealed London broil on the dining table, making her way to the front door.
Her head cocks in puzzlement at the bottleneck she finds. Bodies with empty eye sockets that glare red are piled about like pillow shams.
Softly singing Portishead’s “All Mine” she grabs a jar off the floor, smiling at the eyeballs it contains.
Marie is a collector and she has only just begun.