Chapter 1
In the broadness of my minimalistic living room the shadows of the dimming day wrap around my silhouette, black against the whiteness of the couch.
“Ms. Dawson…”, starts the journalist
“John, why don’t you call me Iris”, I say
The journalist is silent for a moment, before he replies, Sure Iris. His reply is accompanied by a brief laugher and a barely detectable tinge of embarrassment.
“Good”, I smile
John’s eyes elude mine for a moment, tracing unspoken questions in the empty space. I sit immobile, waiting for his words.
“You’ve written ten books worth millions of copies each”, he starts, “but the beginning of your first book is what always stroke me the most”
“Why?”, I ask
John knows, but he cannot tell me.
I see John brought the book with him, and I ask him to read the passage to me.
“Perhaps you could”, he says after a pause, handing me the book
I recite from memory instead, my eyes locked onto his.
I am not an object of desire because of who I am, but because there is something I know how to do better than anyone else. I show people their deepest desires, the ones they cannot get themselves to acknowledge.
Hold my hand as we head to hell, I know that’s where you want to be. It will seem so natural to go down that path when you and I walk side by side.
My innocence is infinite.
After I finish we sit silent for a moment.
“Why?”, I ask again
Instead of offering an answer John clears his throat and pulls out his notebook.
I smile and pour us drinks.
“Perhaps you want to hear the full story behind these words”, I say, as I patiently begin to weave the path to John’s answer.