Post by bacon on Mar 18, 2006 17:53:01 GMT -5
Modified from the original (crappy) movie I made with some software known as Day and Night, The Photographs is something I just randomly started working on last night, and I managed to complete the prologue, so here it is.
He was gone. Sent away. Kept away. Far away. Elizabeth Taylor stood alone in her shower, icy water running down her back. She was quivering, not from the water but from the thoughts running in her psyche. Harry was gone evermore. There was no mistaking this fact. They would never be together once more. This problem had already been dealt with, the problem was already answered. The deed had been complete, the carcass had been buried. He would never return. Never again. She would never see his face again. She would never be able to kiss him again. She would never be able to hold him again. The actions of the last few days had been turbulent, yes, and thoughts of bereavement were all too simple to think of in that long night… the night of death in the streets of London.
Steam flowed throughout the bathroom from the shower itself. She could see nothing… nothing at all, save for the flowing water vapor rising through the air. And she could not help but to only visualize… imagine what could have been different. He did not have to die. No. It was her fault. All her fault. Entirely. There was no denying that. Elizabeth glanced up; the small ceiling tiles were somewhat visible against the fog.
The young woman found herself in a dream… a quiet daze… the smoke was bringing back memories she longed to disregard… she began to hope she would not live to see the night’s end. It was too much. His death was utterly absurd… it could not be true! She had never been able to picture existence without Harry Taylor. He was such a peaceful man… a good man… a handsome man… why, why, did it have to be him! There was the beach… the car… the forest… these memories began to flow to her, she could not forget them. They would never leave her, those good memories. Damn them! How she longed to forget them, to throw them to the wayside, to get on with her life! Yet… she could not.
Elizabeth Taylor stepped out of the shower, her face drenched, not necessarily from the shower, but from the unremitting tears, the flowing tears, she could not hold them back. But she did not make a sole sound, a single noise. She did not dare to. Things were still hazardous outside the apartment… she could not dare to make even a hum, the shower was loud enough as it was. But, even if she had felt safe and secure, she could not have made a noise. The events of the night before had destroyed her. She had not uttered a word to anyone since her return, not even to her own mother.
Elizabeth slowly grabbed a towel, throwing it around her; the fog still lay throughout the room. How long had she been in that shower? Hours perhaps… the hot water had vanished long ago, yet that did not matter. Nothing mattered. He was gone. Vanished from the face of the earth. He was never coming back. Never.
The girl turned round, only to see herself staring straight towards her. It was her own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and it was a ghastly sight. Dried blood and scars lay all throughout her body… from the top of her highest hair to the bottom of her smallest toe. She had not gazed at herself in a mirror in God knows how long. The last time she had been a beautiful woman, a marvelous spectacle of wonder against the many males of the neighborhood. Yet now… now she was a monster. A deep cut penetrated from her cheek to her very pupil. Her eyes themselves showed no emotion whatsoever, however the bags under them expressed wholly her mood. Her nose had a deep scar running all the way across. It was broken. Her lips, once as red as the rose, were as black as oil, dry skin flakes falling from them incessantly. She touched her face softly… only softly, and more of the same black flakes dropped from her face. Black and bloody were her now gangly arms, her legs still dropping with cuts unhealed by the nurses at the hospital. They had done an obviously sloppy job with her. Perhaps they did not care… did anyone actually care for her?
Sighing, she began to walk towards the door, quite silently I might add, when she noticed something. It was a portrait. A single painting. A man lay in the frame. Smiling with shining grey eyes and grey hair, it seemed to Elizabeth- wait a moment, this was a photo, not a drawing. She could tell by the grain and the obvious black and white ficture of the photograph. Even through the endless film grain, she could spot the man in the photograph… it was Harry.
Who had put this here? It was clearly not she… and her mother would not let a depiction of the man past her doorstep. She did not care. Delicately, she caressed the picture. A hint of emotion lay in her blue eyes. A hint of remembrance. For a moment, the woman’s face implied what she once was… a weak smile crossed her lips. But in an instant, it vanished, and her despair returned. Her eyes… her eyes were the most interesting of all. A flaming passion resided within her as she coldly stared at the print for but a moment, a single moment that she would remember for the rest of her life, however long it would be. Bowing her head, she turned away from the photo, once more returning to the depression that had been consuming her very soul for the last few nights. The last few nights of hell. A living, breathing hell in the streets of London, in the year of 1943.