bathtub inferno: an excerpt

By Marz Lazar

Mother tells me it’s time for a bath. I am drowsily staring amongst the pages of equations my teacher assigned me. I find myself ghost-walking down the stairs, through the hall, reaching the back door to follow along the path to the bathhouse. Step after step, my calloused heels dig into the unforgiving cobblestone, my muscles droop down towards the earth in fatigue; the planet threatening to swallow me up in a lethargic gulp. 

The door is a painting of oak planks, the lock is rusted to the bone, I creak open the entryway, and am met with the sight of lightly grimed tiles, and an off-white bathtub.

I twist the faucet handle, the water spilling into the tub, the gentle rush cocooning my ears. I unbutton my cotton dress, and neatly fold it on the counter, hanging up the sandpapery towels and removing my bobby socks and oxfords. My nude form in the mirror snags on my vision, as I dart my eyes away, looking for a mallet or a lost baseball, hoping to shatter it to shards.

I slide into the bath, closing my eyes as the world fades in the noir scenescape of my mind. Psychedelic patterns and cogs clog my sight, the warmth of the water, a nurturing hand, massaging out the tension of my shoulders.

 

Marz Lazar is a Junior at Kinder HSPVA for Creative Writing, who primarily writes realistic and creative-nonfiction. In her free time, Marz can be found reading, cooking, sewing, or learning new Duolingo languages.