[Disclaimer: I do not own the book/film on which this story is based,
Jeffrey Eugenides and Sofia Coppola do.]
-------------------------------------------------- Bathroom Girl.
-
A steady drip reverberated off the four tiled walls of the downstairs bathroom, in the old Lisbon house.
It was mixed with the faint sounds of the outside world; children running through sprinklers under the bright summer sun, cars rumbling past, and the occasional bird call. Sunlight streamed through a thin gap in the heavy curtains, casting its light upon the face of a young girl, floating in the bath; Cecilia Lisbon, just thirteen years old.
Her expression was peaceful, almost relieved. Her mystical, distant blue eyes stared at the ceiling. Her shoulder length, dark blonde hair gently waved in the water around her head, like reeds at the base of a lake. But one thing tainted this image of tranquillity; the savage gashes in both of Cecilia's wrists.
From them, spilled scarlet rivers of life, which quickly spread until the whole bath was filled with a rosy glow. In her right hand, which was resting on her chest, she held a laminated picture of the Virgin Mary, who's small, mysterious smile reflected Cecilia's own. A trail of tiny red drops, which ended in the bath, led backwards over the bath's edge, the bath mat, and up into the toilet bowl, where the jagged razor lay in it's own pink pool.
The dripping, which came from the leaky sink, continued, unnoticed by Cecilia, as her ears were submerged. The only sound she could hear was the diminishing beat of her own heart. And even that sound faded, as her world began to disappear.
The last thing Cecilia Lisbon felt before she passed out, was strong hands lifting her out of the bathtub. The last things she heard were muffled voices above her, and faint screaming from some faraway place.
And the last thing she thought, hoped, was that they were already too late.
-------------------------------------------------- Bathroom Girl.
-
A steady drip reverberated off the four tiled walls of the downstairs bathroom, in the old Lisbon house.
It was mixed with the faint sounds of the outside world; children running through sprinklers under the bright summer sun, cars rumbling past, and the occasional bird call. Sunlight streamed through a thin gap in the heavy curtains, casting its light upon the face of a young girl, floating in the bath; Cecilia Lisbon, just thirteen years old.
Her expression was peaceful, almost relieved. Her mystical, distant blue eyes stared at the ceiling. Her shoulder length, dark blonde hair gently waved in the water around her head, like reeds at the base of a lake. But one thing tainted this image of tranquillity; the savage gashes in both of Cecilia's wrists.
From them, spilled scarlet rivers of life, which quickly spread until the whole bath was filled with a rosy glow. In her right hand, which was resting on her chest, she held a laminated picture of the Virgin Mary, who's small, mysterious smile reflected Cecilia's own. A trail of tiny red drops, which ended in the bath, led backwards over the bath's edge, the bath mat, and up into the toilet bowl, where the jagged razor lay in it's own pink pool.
The dripping, which came from the leaky sink, continued, unnoticed by Cecilia, as her ears were submerged. The only sound she could hear was the diminishing beat of her own heart. And even that sound faded, as her world began to disappear.
The last thing Cecilia Lisbon felt before she passed out, was strong hands lifting her out of the bathtub. The last things she heard were muffled voices above her, and faint screaming from some faraway place.
And the last thing she thought, hoped, was that they were already too late.