The candles are clustered on the coffee table in a Manhattan skyline of wax. We begin to light them, slowly and carefully. Nobody speaks. I observe the others' faces but they are all strangers to me, apart from my new friend, Max. Now my head is beginning to pop and fizz and my lips are tingling. Each strike of a match makes me giggle. The noises are so loud - the rasp on the box, the splutter of the flame as it lingers between life and death.

In the background, music begins to play making the flames in the candles rise from their wicks and dance in the draught from the door. Gradually the other people disperse and settle into couples. I sit back against the sofa and watch the warmth creeping from the candles and pouring like syrup across the surface of the table. I lean over and plunge my hand into the golden liquid, dispelling it like mercury with my touch. As I come nearer, the candles shrink away from me. I peer into them and their monkey wax faces glare back at me, curling thick, tallow lips and screwing up angry foreheads. I poke out my tongue at them and the tongue-flames poke back at me, reaching towards my face. A hand grips my upper arm.

"Come away Wendy. It's just the acid."

Max pulls me back from the table and the monkey faces laugh at my retreat, their tongues flicking from side to side as they jeer and mock.

"But they're laughing at me," I say and hear the petulance in my voice. "They're being rude to me." I look at Max for understanding. His face is soft, the flesh melting and moving on the bones, the lines dragging it down. But now his smile crawls upwards, hauling the skin back with it, making his cheeks pink and round as apples. What a warm face Max has, what a lovely smile. How kind he is to bring me back to his flat, to look after me like this.

"You're way up now. Relax. Enjoy the trip. But don't forget to remember. Keep grounded."

Don't forget to remember, don't forget to remember. Max is so clever with words. Clever, clever Max. So handsome and clever Max is, is Max, Max is.

He puts an arm about my shoulders and draws me back to lean on him. His other hand drops down upon my thigh, like an animal falling from a tree. The hairs on his knuckles are moving and writhing, tiny black money spiders huddling and rearranging themselves. I put out a finger and they lie still, playing dead. Their silliness makes me smile. Now Max's hand is moving up my leg, crawling over the softness of my dress, my lovely, white lacy dress.

"It's a pretty dress isn't it," I say. "I suit pretty dresses. I like to wear white. Emily Dickinson always wore white." He mumbles agreement and slips his hand into the crack of my thighs, pushes the ridge of his thumb against my groin. I hear a groan. Is it from me, an inside me, a pleasure me? I feel the wet in my pants, the sweet pangs radiating. Wetness seeps though the fabric, runs through his fingers, onto the carpet. I put my hand down to cover it. Surely everyone must see?

"Let's get out of here," Max whispers and his voice is hoarse. But where shall we go? I'm feeling warm and happy here in Max's flat, with Come-back-with-me-Max, with You'll-be-safe-with-me-Max. Here in Max's flat, Maxwell's House, Pepsi Max, Max Head...

He pulls me to my feet and leads me out of the room.

"Don't let me go or I'll float away," I say. I hold out my dress. "I'm a dandelion clock, I'm a satin balloon, I'm a silky parachute." I love the sound of my words. I'm clever with words. I spend a lot of time in my room writing poetry. Emily Dickinson locked herself away and wrote poetry all the time. Max and I are both clever with words. I deserve to have Max because I say pretty words and make him smile his special smile. Patty doesn't make him happy. We should all be happy. We all deserve to be happy.

Max puts a finger to his lips to quieten me. "Stay grounded," he says. "Don't forget to remember. Always remember."

In the bedroom, Max shuts the door behind him with a click. Click, Click. What a silly sound. Click, click.

"Shut the door without a click," I say and laugh at my joke. What a funny thing to say. How witty I am.

I look around the room. It's very strange, dark and full of men's things, not like the one I've left behind which is pale and plain. Patty laughed when she first came to see me there. It's like a little girl's room she said. At first, I wasn't allowed anything in my room, not even combs or hair clips. When people came to visit they had to leave everything outside, locked in a cupboard. But I'm a lot better now. They sent me home today but I ran away. I don't ever want to go home again.

The duvet in my room had pink and yellow stripes that looked like sherbet but Max's duvet is plain and navy blue. There's a uniform thrown on top of it with patchy, jungle colours. It's like a jungle out there, sometimes it makes me wonder. That's part of an old song I think.

"It's like a jungle out there," I say to Max and sit down on the bed. I want to sing the words but I can't. My mouth feels dry. There's a bottle of water by the bed and I drink from it. The water drips down my chin and onto the uniform, stirring the camouflage snakes and making them swirl and writhe - green and brown and mellow yellow. I put my hand down to still them and they lie there obediently. All creatures obey me now. The water sparkles on my hands like glitter. I hold them up to the lamp and admire them, rub the glitter into my skin. But it won't disappear. I rub them over and over again until the glitter itches and scratches my skin.

"Hey, hey relax," Max says and stands in front of me. He takes my hands in his. "I don't like this glitter," I say, "I don't like the feel of it."

"Stay grounded little Wendy bird," Max soothes. "Do you like the feel of this. Do you like this in your hands." He fumbles with his zip, takes my hands down to his trousers and pushes himself into my palms. He moves inside my hands, making the soft skin ride up and down, up and down.

"Christ," he says. "Oh Christ."

I see a little pink mouse peeping in and out. Peepo, peepo. It has a tiny mouth and looks surprised each time. "Oh, oh," its mouth says. But it has no eyes. One blind mouse, I sing, see how he hides.

Max laughs. "He needs somewhere to hide," he says and pushes me back on the bed, making my head dance and spin. He climbs on the bed with me, kneels up and starts to take off his trousers.

There is a picture of a man on the ceiling above my head. He has long hair and eyes like Jesus, big and brown and sad. But he has a sneer on his mouth and a rifle in his hands. His chest is shiny with sweat and it drips on the pillow. I brush it away and wipe it out of my hair. My parents have lots of pictures of Jesus but not this sort of Jesus. I turn my head to the side instead and look at the objects on the shelf, moving and shifting. There is a pineapple, a grey small pineapple. It puzzles me. I blink and stare at it again.

Now Max is half naked and crouching over me. The little mouse has become ugly, sticking out all the time, a horrible red, blind mouse. He draws my hand towards it again but I pull away. Max pushes up my dress, my pretty white dress. He yanks it up under my bottom and lifts it to my waist.

I feel like a baby all exposed like this. I open my legs and kick them in the air and my leather boots gleam down at me, black and shiny as slugs. Max grips my ankles and unzips them - rip, rip, zip, zip - then tosses them to the floor. He peels down my tights, skinning my legs. They feel cold lying open on the bed. Moonlight shafts through a crack in the shutters. I put out my hand and filter the milky white stream through my fingers. My panties are white too, stretched taut over my bones. I used to measure the gap between my panties and my stomach, keep a record in my diary of how deep the hollow went. My sister Patty found it in my drawer and gave it to the nurse.

Max is tugging on my panties now, roughly pulling them down. I turn my head to the shelf again to see the small, grey pineapple.

"What's that fruit?" I say. "Is it a pineapple?"

Max laughs as he leans across to grab it. He holds it in his palm, up to the moonlight that whitens my legs to alabaster and makes the fruit all shiny grey.

"What do you think?" he says and holds it down to my lips. It's cold and hard and the pattern is harsh against my mouth. There is a metal loop at the top. "Is this to take the skin off?" I ask and Max laughs again.

"Taste it," he says. "It's an orgasm fruit. It makes you feel nice. It makes you come. Go on lick it, go on."

I open my mouth and lick the fruit. It has a funny taste, a metallic taste.

"Christ," Max says again and his voice is small and tight. He takes the heavy fruit away from my mouth and places it on my stomach, pressing it into my hollow, rolling it down between my legs. But I don't like what he's doing. The edges are rough and hard.

"I don't like this Max," I say and hear a whimper in my voice. "I don't like this."

I hear a click. Click. I hear a creak. Creak. I hear a voice. Oh my God. It's a female voice, an angry voice. But it's not one I remember from the other room.

"What the fuck are you playing at, Max?" says the angry voice.

I turn my head and see a figure standing in the doorway. The grey pineapple lies between my legs heavy and cold but I can't move or speak. Panic is starting to crawl through my veins. The magic fruit has paralysed me. I stare up at the ceiling, at Jesus holding a gun. Help me Jesus I pray but he sneers back down at me. Max sits up on the bed and pulls the duvet over himself.

"Fuck off Lindsey," he says. "What's it to do with you?"

"She's Patty's sister for Christ's Sake. She's just been in hospital again. Her head's all over the place."

"Oh great, fucking brilliant." Max starts to pull on his trousers. He tosses the duvet over me then walks towards the door, zipping up his fly. "And how was I to know that? The kid just turned up at the pub and asked to come back. Anyway, she was gagging for it, unlike her bloody sister."

I see Lindsey's arms lift, hear her slap and flap at Max, making her long hair fly.

"You bastard, you bastard."

"Jesus," says Max and pushes her out of the room. He shuts the door behind him with a Click. Click, click, click. Silly click.

The moon is creeping into the room now, crawling over the walls and nosing into the corners. My legs are twitching on the bed telling me they're all right. I hear my teeth chattering to each other. Gagging for it, they say, she was gagging for it. I grab the railings of the bed and ease myself away from the poisonous fruit.

"I'm sick of the sound of your gagging," Patty once said. "I'm sick of all your bloody hang ups dominating the family."

Max is taking a long time to come back. I climb off the bed and my legs feel wobbly and weak. I put my hand to my cheeks and feel the tears. They run onto my mouth and I'm terrified of the poison in them. Now my body is burning hot. I gulp down water from the bottle and pour it over my head yet still I feel the heat from the poison. The moon streams through the shutters and across the floor. It wants to heal and cleanse me I can tell. I step into it and bathe and cool my feet. Thank you moon, new moon, blue moon, cool moon. I walk through the moonbeam stream toward the shutters, pull them wide and step out on to the balcony. The moon hangs so low in the sky I can reach out a hand to touch it. Don't forget to remember Max said, don't forget to remember. But what do I want to remember? I smooth down my dress and feel the torn lace mesh my fingers. Emily Dickinson always wore a white dress. She locked herself away to write poetry. They called her the Nun of Amherst and everyone liked her even though she was strange. I was happy writing poetry in my room. I don't ever want to go home. You can be whatever you like in a white dress. I'm a dandelion clock, I'm a satin balloon, I'm a silky parachute, I'm a Wendy bird.

^