Lily O'Malley walks the tightrope, perched precariously above the circus ring below. Her head is held high, glossy ringlets shining, parasol held daintily. The height is dizzying, and the consequences of a single misstep grave.

It feels good, though. The gasps, the cheers, the applause. And all eyes on her. It may be a brief moment in time, but for those few minutes, she is all they can see, all they want to see. And it thrills her almost as much as Alex did. It thrills her to know that she has cheated death.

And then the memories come back. Alex was not able to cheat death. Alex is dead, and she is alone.

It is then that she needs attention, needs to be loved and adored, for the painful memories to be suppressed. For her to feel truly happy. It is truly a vicious cycle, but she walks through it willingly.

But one day, something is different. A pair of eyes follows her across the rope, like the rest. And are unable to stop, even once she is safely on the ground, and off on the sidelines walking off to her meager dressing room. He asks around, and finally meets her. His name is Gracey, George Gracey. The name is not unknown to her; he is the heir to the Gracey shipping company, worth his weight in gold. That alone perhaps could have lured her in.

But his eyes held all the adoration, all the admiration and infatuation she sought. He was not Alex, could never be Alex. But with him, perhaps, she could be happy.

So she says yes.

Life in Gracey Manor is much more dull, depressingly, and lonely than George had painted it to be. He's gone most of the day, either locked in his study working on accounts, or off on trips collecting rare arcane artifacts. His newfound fascination with the occult has also driven a wedge between them; George spends altogether too much time with and too much money on that crackpot of a "psychic," Madame Leota.

Lily wanders most of the day, studying the painted faces of her husband's peculiar ancestors, or examining the rooms. She tried her hand once at embroidery, but laughed at her efforts and threw the tangled mess in the bayou. Here, she is nothing, has nothing.

I'm your wife! She wants to scream at George. Look at me, talk to me! Is it so much to ask of you?

She heartily wishes for nothing more than to return to the circus, to the ring of dazzled faces below, and the simple magic of a piece of rope.

It's at a small garden party that George threw (why he does so, Lily has no clue, since he rarely attends them) that Leota approaches her. The so-called "psychic" is startlingly friendly, which normally would be enough to unsettle the young bride. But she bears a request.

Some guests had heard of Mrs. Gracey's former occupation; as great enthusiasts of the circus, could they prevail upon her to once again perform her old act?

Ignoring the warning bells sounding in her head at that strangely predatory smile, Lily enthusiastically agrees. For once, there is something she can do. An audience! She is only too happy to oblige.

A rope is prepared across a murky section of the bayou, and Lily, clutching her old circus parasol, daintily ascends. She is all smiles and confidence as she steps forward, nodding at George's admiring expression. She does not notice the movement beneath the water, of green scales and calculating yellow eyes. Neither does she notice the same expression in the eyes of the psychic, watching…waiting.

As Lily takes a step forward, she feels the rope jerk under her feet. A quick, startled glance shows her that the rope ahead of her is frayed, unraveling quickly. She bounces up on her feet, prepared to backtrack to safety, when the rope finally snaps beneath her…and the alligator waiting below rears its head.

But she doesn't feel dismay as she plummets downwards towards those cruel, sharp jaws. Lily feels only exultation. Finally, at long last, all eyes are on her.

This story was based off of the fan-created unofficial "biography" for the woman in the stretching portrait (the tightrope walker). The Haunted Mansion is property of Disney…I only worship it in my waking hours.

This is the fourth story in my "Women of the Haunted Mansion" series. If you're interested in this, try reading its predecessors, "The True Life Confessions of a Damned Soul," "Livin' La Vida Leota," and "Peace and Quiet."

Incidentally, this story had a close call with being titled "Eyes on Me," but I decided to run with a horrible pun for the title. (Because even a suggestion of FF8 in an HM fanfic would be way too weird, even for me.)

As always, please read and review!