As the lights slowly dimmed and then died out, she slouched in her red velvet seat, arms tightly crossed, her gaze straight ahead. Her inappropriate posture betrayed her considerable height; she was a fairly tall girl, standing at around five feet, eight inches.
The brightly lit barren desert mountains that appeared before her made her squint, her pupils contracting, adjusting to the dramatic increase in light. The wash of ivory made her already pale complexion even fainter, her appearance now bordering on ghostly. An uncomfortable grin drew itself across her face as violins, violas and cellos struck discordant sixteenth notes at an unrelenting pace, establishing an eerily contrasting soundtrack to the static yet serene scenery before her.
As time went on, she sunk deeper into her seat, her shoulders eventually resting well below mine. A blaze raged before us in the nighttime desert sky, the reds, oranges and yellows tinting her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes drifted away from the spectacle, momentarily meeting mine. Her shy smile acknowledged my inquisitive glance. I could do nothing but smile back.
Loud yelling erupted and she sprung up, her back hunched and leaning forward, teetering precariously on the edge of her seat. Two men clashed in an old two-lane bowling alley. They stomped about the room, one of them angrily shouting as the other recoiled in horror. Her lips curled up, forming a slight grin on her face. The expression was hesitant; she knew full well that the event unfolding before her was one of violence and depravity, and that smiles were inappropriate. As the violence reached its peak, there was blood. She sat silent, wide-eyed.
“I’m finished,” cried out the survivor. A Brahms-penned classical piece was heard as the credits rolled.
*this was an exercise in description for a literary non-fiction class
Saturday, January 19, 2008
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