The Nemesis

CHAPTER FOUR: LAURIE

"Noooo! Let me out! Let me out! Noooo! Noooo!", yells a sweat-drenched Pip, thrashing in her sleep and punching the air with tightly clenched fists as if desperately pounding on an invisible door.

Her fist tirelessly bangs on the medieval mural wall behind her delicately hand-carved, rosewood four-poster queen bed and accidentally flicks on the light switch. Sacred warm light fulminates out of a chandelier with a ruby gem column, gold droopy chains, and six Camelia flower-shaped crystal gas shades, above Pip's head, bathing her distressed pallid face with its luminous rays.

Pip yells a final sharp, "No!", before her eyes bolt open and

chokes on her anxiously irregular breaths, feeling as if her throat is a desert made of grimy pieces of sandpaper.

She hyperventilates as her steel gray eyes, galvanized with sticky angry tears, burn into the blaring red chandelier and body frozen by the icy hands of sheer despicable fear still shoving her mind into the water of her freshly echoing nightmare.

From the mono speakers on the Spanish colonial style red pine ceiling of gold lozenge panels, the sacred automatic female voice promptly greets Pip, "Good Morning, Ms. Nast. It is 10:30 am, Tuesday, October 6, 2020".

Pip's dilated pupils dart to the speakers and she abruptly sits up in her, profusely panting like an overheated summer marathoner, as precious reality embraces her in its comforting arms.

As she looks around her candescent room filled with antique aristocratic luxuries collected from around the globe; treasured unique punk paintings of the latest up-and-rising artists, decorated on a lonely wall on top of the fireplace; favorite 1920 matcha-green colored chinoiserie floor lamp with hand-painted birds and flowers on the shade and flamingo pink fringes; worshiped Renaissance oval-shaped golden standing mirror with beauteous fairies carved on its edges; most beloved Lilith the creepy restored porcelain Victorian doll, who has been her only source of memorable childhood friendship, stiffly sat on the GUCCI pink floral jacquard armchair near the ivory marble fireplace, with its eerie blue eyes staring cozily at Pip; adored festive crimson curtains, reminiscent of Christmas all-year-round; and profoundly cherished Alistair's bouquet of thirteen sumptuous black dahlias made of west Oxfordshire raven feathers, standing proud on a fancy circular rosewood tea table placed in the middle of the vast stretch burgundy Persian rug.

A reassured smile appears on Pip's lips and she carefully climbs out of bed, with one clammy hand placed on her dizzy, cold forehead, gently pushing back the English blush-pink mulberry silk, paisley damask-printed bedsheets, and landing her feet onto the soft rug. Pip walks over to the plush burgundy window-seat, where she picks up her tiger and tropical plant embroidered extravagant GUCCI kimono gown that has a navy-colored sailor's collar with lavender rabbit fur tracing its edges and sage green fur lining the brim of two black Dalmatian embroidered velvet pockets.

She throws on the kimono gown over her slender, narrow shoulders and grins proudly with a fashionista wink at the oval standing mirror before her feet lightly pats the floor as she exits her room with a diva-like sway of her effortlessly alluring messed curls.

Down the polished black marble steps of the serpentine spiral staircase goes Pip, savoring each cooling touch on her feet, and walks down the West Hallway, where disputing echoes indistinctly ring out like whispers of vexed spectral.

Pip walks for nearly ten minutes down the long hallway whose oakwood walls are decorated with vintage collectible Hermes carré silk scarves, before entering the parlor room where all the friends are gathered altogether and heatedly quarreling; most have their accusative fingers pointed at Lennon out of pure spite.