Prologue: The scene I have chosen is from one of the best horror films of all times, Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960). It is the shower scene, which lasts approximately three minutes. Since I will be writing as Marion Crane, the only observations I can make are based on what she sees, feels, hears, etc. Sadly, this omits the most spectacular aspect of this scene: the music. Watching the scene with the music enhances the horrific aspects to a level beyond what Marion’s relatively silent observations will yield. That being said, it is now minute 47 of the film:
Marion: I am so tired and cannot wait to get into the shower, and then into bed. This hotel room is so generic, so uninspired. I don’t even know for sure what town I am near—I guess there is a diner about ten miles down the road, but otherwise this place is out in the middle of nowhere. Used to be busy I bet, during the 1950s, before the highway came through a couple of years ago and rerouted traffic away from the road in front. Now no one comes by here—unless they have a reason to be here, that is. That is good, I do not want to talk to anyone tonight; I do not want to think. I just want to take a shower then sleep forever! At least there are no other guests around. This solitude should ensure that I get a good night’s sleep.

First let me flush this paper down the toilet (I know, proper girls in 1960 do not speak of such things), then slip out of my clothes. Carefully I am stepping into the bathtub with shower, one foot at a time. I love the way my toe points downward, so delicately, like a trained ballerina. I have always taken pride in my gracefulness, even when I am physically and emotionally spent like tonight. The water is just the right temperature as I ease into the center of the shower. Finally, I can feel the water streaming down my face. The shower head is so big, it seems to envelop me in water—oh, it feels not just refreshing, but cleansing. I sense the one bright bathroom light shining on my face, and I am beginning to feel renewed.

I can shut my eyes at last, relax and smile as I feel the soothing rivulets of water pour down my face and body. It makes me feel like I am away from this sordid, backwater motel, and somewhere pleasant and quiet. The gurgling noise of running water is rather distracting, but I guess that is the price I must pay to be clean and fresh.

Wait a minute…I sense someone else is present. Did the light flicker as the bathroom door was opened, or am I just imagining things? What is that sudden motion! The shower curtain is being ripped back to expose me to…who?…what? Some shadowy figure that appears to be an elderly woman but moves quickly as she raises her arm and—OH NO! I see the knife. Shining, bright, swinging down towards me over and over again. I feel it piercing my flesh and grab around my body to shield myself, to protect my graceful, beautiful body. The annoying sounds of the water are gone now, replaced by—my screams! I am screaming over and over, terrified, as the knife plunges into my stomach rhythmically, steadily, unceasingly.

The bright light is fading now, cut off by the figure in front of me. The soothing rivulets of water continue to run, but there is a warmer liquid mixed in with it: my blood. I feel the blood spurting out of my body; I barely hear it spatter on the shower walls, but I feel it. I feel its thick warmth as it slides down my body and into the drain. I can’t fight back, the blows are coming too fast. All I can do is scream. SCREAM!–and try to hold myself upright. Do not give in!

Grab for something, Marion, reach out your hand. There, the shower curtain—you have it now hold on tight. Oh no, it ripped like a frail piece of tissue. My outstretched hand has flung back to my side and I feel the life draining out of me. All I can do is stare straight ahead as the vile figure finishes her vicious attack and flees out into the night. Slowly I slide down the tile wall, and though nearly unconscious I can feel a trail of my own blood following my body down, down, down. It is over. I can’t fight, I can’t resist. Light is fading to dark, the warmth of the water and my blood have merged and I am drowning in a pool of my own death.

My face falls flat against the tub floor and in my last moments on earth I am silent, gazing after my attacker, whoever she was. As the last streams of my blood swirl down the drain, the water continues to gurgle, but I no longer hear it. I wanted to sleep forever, but not here, not like this. How can I feel so purified one minute and so empty the next? In three minutes I have become a hollow shell, no longer a graceful young woman. I am frozen in time, staring, silent. I am dead.