Violoncello
Three.
Bathtub.
She draws in her breath, closing her eyes.
Scalding hot water engulfs her naked self, leaving her soft skin sensitive and red. She had not poured bubble bath into the tub; she was completely and utterly exposed. She had spent nearly an hour in front of her vanity mirror, brushing her hair, painting her lips, staring. . .
And now, the weight of the world was ready to sink.
With both hands gripping the edge of the tub, she eases her way in, carefully. It seems like forever, how long it took to let the water rise up all the way to her diamond necklace. Her throat feels like it's closing up from the assaulting hot water, but it's just the urge to stop breathing.
Dramatic tension grips her, and she opens her eyes. The sun is almost here, in a couple of more hours at the most. She can't wait for the fault in the horizon. She isn't excited for it--no, she dreads it.
She looks down towards her pinkish colored body. She used to believe she was fairly attractive: rosy cheeks, long curly hair, precious lips, the brightest eyes. . .
Oh, how ugly she felt!
She no longer feels that leaden breeze of beauty in her; it was a wave of despair and shame and wretchedness. Her body is a sheet on her bones, her skin is paper, her eyes are dim and full of melancholy.
The water is rushing out of the pipe, steam billowing in great clouds from the spout. She stares up at the ceiling, and lets go of the ceramic tub, listlessly descending into the very clear water.
Underneath the sea, her eyes remain open, blazing with pain. She sees air bubbles rushing up towards the surface, and her hair is crawling up like vines, tickling her face. The embracing heat fades, and she closes her eyes, welcoming the numb. . .the rip-roaring sensation of boiling blood and blazing bones.
The waves of the storm collide with the rocks at the base of the high cliff, clawing at its side, full of rage. The rising sun rushes towards the sharp rocks, gripping the sea with unmerciful force. Again, a stillness is in the air. The sea is calm. The water is calm.
Party
A light buzz of excitement filled the vine-enclosed pavilion. The moon was out on the prowl and the creatures of the night were whispering to each other. High pitched cricketing hid itself in the surrounding greenery and the wind picked up the table clothes.
A young Elizabeth stood casually near her newest interest, Francis, sharing a conversation with a group of her friends, admiring the lovely weather and cool breeze. Occasionally, Francis would touch her hand, or brush her hip, or smile. Their courtship had progressed during the recent weeks, and she couldn't be more giddy. Smoothing her pinned up hair, she looked down at her blue dress and felt very pretty. Francis had been eyeing her that evening; he was quiet and shy, although really didn't need to worry.
Francis was the son of her father's colleague, Mr. Eisenhower, a wealthy man who meddled about in the auto industry. The two had met during Mrs. Eisenhower's untimely funeral, and became an instant topic of discussion.
"Elizabeth! How is school?" Mary Ann said, grinning. "I heard you've taken up the cello."
"Yes, I have," she replied, her heart swelling with pride.
"That's very well; I'm glad you've taken it up. It's such a noble instrument. . ." Mary Ann's voice trailed off into something about an orchestra. Elizabeth was too wrapped up in the feeling of Francis' eyes on her. She was like cotton candy; sweet and fluffy and rich with innocence.
A soft rush of warm breath reached her neck. She froze, her heart beating rapidly out of her thin frame. She could feel Francis near, him behind her sitting on a stool. He was not too close, but not too far away.
"I love you."
She draws in her breath, closing her eyes.
Scalding hot water engulfs her naked self, leaving her soft skin sensitive and red. She had not poured bubble bath into the tub; she was completely and utterly exposed. She had spent nearly an hour in front of her vanity mirror, brushing her hair, painting her lips, staring. . .
And now, the weight of the world was ready to sink.
With both hands gripping the edge of the tub, she eases her way in, carefully. It seems like forever, how long it took to let the water rise up all the way to her diamond necklace. Her throat feels like it's closing up from the assaulting hot water, but it's just the urge to stop breathing.
Dramatic tension grips her, and she opens her eyes. The sun is almost here, in a couple of more hours at the most. She can't wait for the fault in the horizon. She isn't excited for it--no, she dreads it.
She looks down towards her pinkish colored body. She used to believe she was fairly attractive: rosy cheeks, long curly hair, precious lips, the brightest eyes. . .
Oh, how ugly she felt!
She no longer feels that leaden breeze of beauty in her; it was a wave of despair and shame and wretchedness. Her body is a sheet on her bones, her skin is paper, her eyes are dim and full of melancholy.
The water is rushing out of the pipe, steam billowing in great clouds from the spout. She stares up at the ceiling, and lets go of the ceramic tub, listlessly descending into the very clear water.
Underneath the sea, her eyes remain open, blazing with pain. She sees air bubbles rushing up towards the surface, and her hair is crawling up like vines, tickling her face. The embracing heat fades, and she closes her eyes, welcoming the numb. . .the rip-roaring sensation of boiling blood and blazing bones.
The waves of the storm collide with the rocks at the base of the high cliff, clawing at its side, full of rage. The rising sun rushes towards the sharp rocks, gripping the sea with unmerciful force. Again, a stillness is in the air. The sea is calm. The water is calm.
Party
A light buzz of excitement filled the vine-enclosed pavilion. The moon was out on the prowl and the creatures of the night were whispering to each other. High pitched cricketing hid itself in the surrounding greenery and the wind picked up the table clothes.
A young Elizabeth stood casually near her newest interest, Francis, sharing a conversation with a group of her friends, admiring the lovely weather and cool breeze. Occasionally, Francis would touch her hand, or brush her hip, or smile. Their courtship had progressed during the recent weeks, and she couldn't be more giddy. Smoothing her pinned up hair, she looked down at her blue dress and felt very pretty. Francis had been eyeing her that evening; he was quiet and shy, although really didn't need to worry.
Francis was the son of her father's colleague, Mr. Eisenhower, a wealthy man who meddled about in the auto industry. The two had met during Mrs. Eisenhower's untimely funeral, and became an instant topic of discussion.
"Elizabeth! How is school?" Mary Ann said, grinning. "I heard you've taken up the cello."
"Yes, I have," she replied, her heart swelling with pride.
"That's very well; I'm glad you've taken it up. It's such a noble instrument. . ." Mary Ann's voice trailed off into something about an orchestra. Elizabeth was too wrapped up in the feeling of Francis' eyes on her. She was like cotton candy; sweet and fluffy and rich with innocence.
A soft rush of warm breath reached her neck. She froze, her heart beating rapidly out of her thin frame. She could feel Francis near, him behind her sitting on a stool. He was not too close, but not too far away.
"I love you."
♠ ♠ ♠
FIN