Her Eyes Were Open
Trisha
The minute hand finally reached 6, and the recess bell rang through the school. Jo sat up in her chair, looked around, and left the classroom. As she made her way outside to the shady quadrangle, she felt a chill run down her spine, and she decided she didn't want to be at school that day. So, without a word to anybody, she left. Alone, she walked past the boundaries of the school, and walked down the road towards the station. The smell of freshly tarred asphalt reached her, and the sun shined brightly in her eyes. It seemed that very normal things were glowing; standing out all of a sudden. Jo kicked off her stiff black school shoes, and sped up her pace.
There seemed to be no-one at the station that day. It was strange; the absence of the usual babbling crowd unnerved her. Upon approaching the platform, she heard a group of people shouting on the railway bridge above her. With childlike curiosity, Jo walked up the ramp, and peered around the corner.
A girl was standing on the railings. Her curly brown hair, set in a bob, was whipping about in the wind, and her face was set, staring ahead. Jo knew that girl. Her name was Trisha Lleyton, and Jo could recall calling her a freak once or twice. Trisha always got picked on at school, for being a bit fat or reading at lunchtimes. A man who stood at the front of the crowd called to her:
"Hey! It's not safe up there! You might fall! Come down!" a train whistle sounded. Jo's stomach dropped when the girl didn't respond. It looked like slow motion; every ripple in the girl's pleated school skirt, every strand of hair that whipped around her pale face seemed to move in slow motion as she jumped. Her body was limp like a doll, and the train swept her form mercilessly from it's path. In a moment of bad reflex, Jo ran to the barrier and reached a hand vainly over the edge. She was met, however, with a macabre image of death, bleeding on the tracks below.
There seemed to be no-one at the station that day. It was strange; the absence of the usual babbling crowd unnerved her. Upon approaching the platform, she heard a group of people shouting on the railway bridge above her. With childlike curiosity, Jo walked up the ramp, and peered around the corner.
A girl was standing on the railings. Her curly brown hair, set in a bob, was whipping about in the wind, and her face was set, staring ahead. Jo knew that girl. Her name was Trisha Lleyton, and Jo could recall calling her a freak once or twice. Trisha always got picked on at school, for being a bit fat or reading at lunchtimes. A man who stood at the front of the crowd called to her:
"Hey! It's not safe up there! You might fall! Come down!" a train whistle sounded. Jo's stomach dropped when the girl didn't respond. It looked like slow motion; every ripple in the girl's pleated school skirt, every strand of hair that whipped around her pale face seemed to move in slow motion as she jumped. Her body was limp like a doll, and the train swept her form mercilessly from it's path. In a moment of bad reflex, Jo ran to the barrier and reached a hand vainly over the edge. She was met, however, with a macabre image of death, bleeding on the tracks below.