cw: gore/body horror, necrophilia/cannibalism mentions, sexist language, consensual injury, implied coercive relationship

This exhibit is accessible through a simple closed door, like one you might find in any home. When you step through into the darkness beyond, the door slams open the instant you're past the threshold, leaving you in complete darkness. For those with acute vestibular senses, something feels wrong in the space beyond, as though there's a gaping chasm just beyond your toes.

When the spotlights flash on, it turns out that's exactly the case.

And they are spotlights — because this is a tent. A massive circus tent, sprawling so wide it ends nearly out of eyesight. You stand on one end of a tightrope, or sort of a tightrope, anyway; it's wide enough to comfortably put one foot on, so that you could easily walk over it if you just put one foot after the other and had moderately decent balance. At the other end of the "rope", easily a mile away, is another platform. On it sits a small white cat, tail tucked neatly around its paws.

Around your neck, something clicks closed. It's not that heavy, but something cool rests against your neck — tags. It's a collar. There's a leash attached to it, which tugs. It seems like there are two choices: across, or down.

If you begin to cross, the leash doesn't pull, simply moves along with you. As you walk, toe to heel, across the bridge, you hear a (possibly familiar) young woman's voice start to talk in your ear; once you get close enough, you can see the cat's mouth moving along with the words. It's telling stories, well-known fairy tales, and while most of the story sounds traditional, the endings are never quite right.

Snow White: ". . . and then she died, and the dwarves left her alone in the woods to rot because they didn't really like her anyway. The prince came to feel her up but left quickly because she stank. Nobody ever found her, but nobody looked, because nobody missed her."

Cinderella: ". . . and the prince didn't marry her, because what sense would that make? He sent her back to her stepmother, who beat her every day, so badly that eventually she started bleeding internally. Her stepmother, who couldn't be fucked to deal with her, locked her in the basement for the rest of her life."

Hansel and Gretel: ". . . and Hansel escaped but Gretel didn't, because the witch thought Hansel deserved a second chance but Gretel was a useless little cunt who didn't deserve shit. Hansel didn't come back for Gretel because he agreed. Gretel spent the rest of her short life in a tiny cage and was made into cupcakes."

Rapunzel: ". . . and the prince was lying the whole time. Once she let down her hair, he climbed up, they hooked up, and then he left and never came back again, because why would he when he got what he wanted? Rapunzel got really depressed, but then she learned how to shoot a bow and every time she saw a man from the tower, she shot him to death, which helped a little."

The Little Mermaid: ". . . and the mermaid was too uneducated to know how to function in society. She fucked up so many times that even the prince had to relent and agreed she had to go, because his position and reputation were way more important than some piece of ass. They cut off her head and threw her back into the sea, where some sharks ate her."

And so on.

Once you reach the other platform, the white cat winds around your legs, rubbing its cheek against you. There's a door here just like the one that disappeared behind you on the other side. Step through it, and you'll find yourself on the museum roof with the collar gone. Turn behind you and find the cat still sitting there, whiskers pushed forward curiously, satisfied. Good luck getting down from there.

If you choose to jump, or if you stumble and fall while crossing, the leash will gently lower you to the ground far below. What's down here is . . . it's weird. It looks like a shabby, cluttered living room. There's one beaten-up armchair, in which is seated a boy in his late teens. He's tall, lean, dark-haired, with brown skin and heavy rings under his eyes. There are several big TVs in front of him, each featuring a different iteration of a short, white-blonde girl with mismatched green-and-blue eyes. He doesn't respond to any outside stimulus, too intent on watching all of the TVs in turn.

One screen displays in black and white, like an oldschool movie. The only exception to this color scheme is the bright, oversaturated red of the girl's lips. She's smoking, leaning back on a desk with her shoulders back, cutting her eyes towards the viewer. She looks sly. She looks dangerous. She looks ruthless.

The next screen displays someone's specific point of view. She sits above them, leaning over them with an eager, hungry look on her face. There's something in her hand — a needle? But it moves too fast to see, and the viewer spasms, making the camera rattle, but attention stays on her face, flushed and delighted at causing pain.

The next screen, which the boy doesn't spend much time watching, shows the girl at the mall eating a pretzel, sneaking looks sideways every once in a while, elbowing the camera person every once in a while.

Next, the same girl cuts another girl's ponytail off, trips one girl into a puddle, shouts silent insults, laughs like a comic book villain.

The next version of this girl — whatever it was about her that made her seem so vibrant and alive is gone. Her eyes are blank, and they also match. She looks like a different person, even though not much has changed and she's still very recognizable as herself. The only other difference is a slight seam around her lower jaw, like a ventriloquist dummy's. This is another point-of-view scene. She's crying, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. She apologizes. She reaches up to touch the viewpoint person's cheek, pushes them, starts crying again, pulls away, pushes forward. She pulls her shirt off and throws it to the side, suddenly no longer crying. Her jaw moves up and down as her lips form I love you. The boy mouths along, leaning forward in his chair.

The next screen shows her very simply pointing a gun at the viewer and pulling the trigger.

The final screen, which the boy never looks at directly, shows the girl in a cage, halfway between the shape of a white cat and her human form. Her body is twisted and pressed painfully against the wire bars. Body twisting, she's made of too many bits and pieces, leaves and scales and feathers providing scattered coverage for her raw musculature and piecemeal skin. Her half-formed mouth is wide, screaming, teeth sticking out everywhere — but this screen is muted, so it might as well not exist.

In a far distant corner of the room, a large, imposing white-haired man sits in a comfortable but clearly expensive easy chair. There's a tiny girl in his lap, white-blonde. Her eyes are closed in sleep, but there's no question who she is. The man's eyes are fixed on the back of the boy's head. Should anyone approach, he raises a finger to his lips. Shh.