Isolation
© 2004 Black Tangled Heart
Disclaimer: The book belongs to Jeffery Eugenides, the film to Sofia Coppola.
Dedication: Storm, you're a doll.
Written in twenty minutes in response to a word challenge: dominant, choice, shelter.
In the book, it is mentioned that Mary showers six times daily. That got me thinking, and this was born.
~*~
The water's lukewarm. It'll be cold soon, and she hasn't rinsed her lemon shampoo from her hair yet. It's Tuesday's fourth shower. Her stomach is cramped with hunger and she's shaking from head to foot. She won't touch a thing until she's showered six times. Her fingers are puckered, her skin lobster red. And now ice is knifing its way down her spine. She shudders, feeling her heart jump. The shampoo rinses clean. She still feels dirty after she shuts off the water.
She can still hear the thump of Bonnie's suitcase in her dreams. She lets her eyes rest on the bathtub faucet and knows that her head would make the same sound while hitting it. That dull, surrendering echo. And blood would pool around her face and run down the drain.
Her mother shut her and her sisters in the house, boding no argument with her dominant voice and hard, pitiless expression. This is Mary's choice of isolation. The shower. She could wait until the water's hot again and let it scald her. She could choke down the spray like Lux choked on monoxide. She imagines her perfect face slathered in blisters, bursting everywhere.
She shivers. She's cold, the porcelain of the tub still under her feet. Goosebumps crawling across her naked skin. She could wrap herself in a towel and get dressed. She could face another day of nothingness, traveling from light to dark with her light table mirror. Tweezing her eyebrows, brushing her teeth. She has nothing else to do in this perverse shelter.
She could pour shampoo down her throat. Like Therese drank gin and pills. The foam would probably come right up again, and she'd vomit all over herself. Have to clean herself again. Her father would ask her what the matter was when she clutched her stomach. She'd say nothing, and he'd leave her be. She knows he wishes so badly for a son. Someone he can relate to, and talk to without the awkwardness.
It would be awkward, but she could slice her wrists with her dull razor. Then hold her wrists under the water until she lost consciousness. Fell through a rushing world of colour and into darkness like Cecelia.
She gets out of the shower and wraps herself in terrycloth. She'll sleep while she waits for the water to warm up. A little shampoo, a few cuts, hot water. And her head against the faucet, with that dull surrendering echo.
The gin tastes like water, the pills like release.
She goes quietly.
~*~
© 2004 Black Tangled Heart
Disclaimer: The book belongs to Jeffery Eugenides, the film to Sofia Coppola.
Dedication: Storm, you're a doll.
Written in twenty minutes in response to a word challenge: dominant, choice, shelter.
In the book, it is mentioned that Mary showers six times daily. That got me thinking, and this was born.
~*~
The water's lukewarm. It'll be cold soon, and she hasn't rinsed her lemon shampoo from her hair yet. It's Tuesday's fourth shower. Her stomach is cramped with hunger and she's shaking from head to foot. She won't touch a thing until she's showered six times. Her fingers are puckered, her skin lobster red. And now ice is knifing its way down her spine. She shudders, feeling her heart jump. The shampoo rinses clean. She still feels dirty after she shuts off the water.
She can still hear the thump of Bonnie's suitcase in her dreams. She lets her eyes rest on the bathtub faucet and knows that her head would make the same sound while hitting it. That dull, surrendering echo. And blood would pool around her face and run down the drain.
Her mother shut her and her sisters in the house, boding no argument with her dominant voice and hard, pitiless expression. This is Mary's choice of isolation. The shower. She could wait until the water's hot again and let it scald her. She could choke down the spray like Lux choked on monoxide. She imagines her perfect face slathered in blisters, bursting everywhere.
She shivers. She's cold, the porcelain of the tub still under her feet. Goosebumps crawling across her naked skin. She could wrap herself in a towel and get dressed. She could face another day of nothingness, traveling from light to dark with her light table mirror. Tweezing her eyebrows, brushing her teeth. She has nothing else to do in this perverse shelter.
She could pour shampoo down her throat. Like Therese drank gin and pills. The foam would probably come right up again, and she'd vomit all over herself. Have to clean herself again. Her father would ask her what the matter was when she clutched her stomach. She'd say nothing, and he'd leave her be. She knows he wishes so badly for a son. Someone he can relate to, and talk to without the awkwardness.
It would be awkward, but she could slice her wrists with her dull razor. Then hold her wrists under the water until she lost consciousness. Fell through a rushing world of colour and into darkness like Cecelia.
She gets out of the shower and wraps herself in terrycloth. She'll sleep while she waits for the water to warm up. A little shampoo, a few cuts, hot water. And her head against the faucet, with that dull surrendering echo.
The gin tastes like water, the pills like release.
She goes quietly.
~*~