She is showering when it happens:

blood -

but it doesn't dribble down, somnambulant-submissive

it torrents - spruiker-insistent.

'Mum! Dad!' she shrieks.

'Help!'

Her father, nonplussed, resorts to inquisition:

     'Are you undergoing a miscarriage?'

'No!'

     'Have you self-administered an abortion?'

'Noooo!'

     'Venereal disease?'

'No, no, no!'

Her hand stretches out

fingers curled over conch-like. 'Daaad?'

     'I can't see what I'm

     expected

     to do,' he protests,

a stern index finger returns glasses to their proper

position,

voluminous black coat tightens as he turns,

moves ponderously away.

'Muuum?'

     'You know that whatever your Father says I have to...'

She turns to her sisters,

her movement echoes her father's,

her attempt to shield herself recalls Botticelli's Venus:

'Will you

take me

to the

hospital?

Please?'

     'God, no!' one retorts, 'you'd only put blood on the seats

     and you know how difficult it is to scrub

     that

     kind of stain from leather.'

     'Besides,' they chorus, arms snaked about each other

     'you never listen. You've only yourself

     to blame.'

There is a game

where the screen turns to red

mist when the player is slain.

This is what she sees now.