Sunday afternoon, 1st of February 1925. The bathroom of a modest house at 822 Wilcox Avenue.
These events were reported from an actual newspaper at the time.
Screams of agony came from the bathroom – only to be met by even louder cries as Mrs Thompson, her hands flying to her mouth, took in the shocking scene before her.
Horrified, she looked on helplessly as her only daughter writhed in pain on the floor in a pool of acid. Great gaping holes formed on the girl’s hips, thighs, and calves, all the way down to her ankles from the acid, eating into her tender young flesh.
The commotion aroused neighbour’s concerns and worried shouts from next door.
‘Alright there?’
The distraught mother was crying too hard to reply, and was about to go into shock. Agonising minutes went by where Mrs Thompson tried dowsing her daughter’s legs with water.
I know I can play parts, but they won’t give me a chance.
It’s legs, always legs. I hate them!’
A private hospital in Los Angeles. 3rd February 1925.
Cables are coming from San Francisco, the news is circulating as fast as journalists can scrawl, typewriters can set, as fast as the printers can run, the news flies all around the world, from America to Mexico, Brazil, Italy, Australia, and beyond.
Readers cannot get enough of a Hollywood tragedy and here is the latest victim, ‘Acid Girl,’ lying on a hospital bed, in apparent agony, her legs bandaged from ankle to thigh, while the rumour mills grind away.
The press have been waiting outside for hours, hoping to catch a glimpse, when they are finally allowed into the clinical room to hear from this strange creature.
Lotus fixes the camera with a petulant, kohl– rimmed stare and waits for the flashes to subside. A small band of newspapermen and photographers are waiting for her to speak – all eyes are on her. She takes her time, using all the rage, fear, and disappointment inside her, letting it all out.
They want to know – everyone wants to know – fine.
In response to a genuinely curious journalist asking what her motivation could possibly have been, she practically screeches:
‘Why? I did it on purpose because I hated the legs that were ruining my life.’
‘I just couldn’t stand it any longer, I cant bear to have my legs photographed any more. So I poured nitric on them.’
‘Legs, legs, legs, nothing but legs!
They keep me prancing about and don’t give me a chance to act. (counts, one, two, three, changing tone, lowering the volume, looking them in the eyes)…
I’ve got brains too…but it was always…’
She goes too far, openly mocking casting directors now, with an exaggerated man’s voice, a strong American accent, her face twisting into a scowl:
‘Here Girlie! Put on this bathing suit!’
An incredible performance.
Lotus Thompson: Silent Film Star 
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