She stands near the cubes, trying to remember. But memory is such a fickle friend, always changing.
All her important memories, they'll never change because she's already moulded them into what she needs. That's the thing about memories: you change them but can't remember doing it.
She lifts a machete out of one of the cubes.
Then pulls out a severed head. It is fresh. It drips blood down her arm as she holds it aloft.
Then she lowers it carefully to her feet.
And screams. And screams.
And the stage vanishes and Joan shudders in the dimly lit stairwell.