#millilewis

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

All The Better, by Milli Lewis

My dearest Kit,

You will never read these letters, because I’ve decided that the regret of never sending them hurts less than you never talking to me again. Nevertheless, it’s something that needs to be written. I think I’ll go mad otherwise.

I’ve been intrigued by you ever since I heard the wheels of your hospital bed clatter into the space opposite mine. It was nine minutes past midnight, and you were screaming, pressing the palms of your hands into your face, a flock of white swathed strangers trying desperately to calm you down. You didn’t stop until two thirty three a.m. When all the people had dissolved from your side, I pushed myself up onto my elbows to get a better look.

Your hair was black, with a gentle wave that spilled onto your pillow, and you were thin, so, so thin, I was surprised your elbows didn’t pierce the pathetic hospital sheet pulled up to your chest. You were curled up, foetal position, your hands intertwined, making you look like you were praying, or begging.

Here comes the part where I tell you your eyes were the most beautiful things I’d ever seen, rich, coffee brown, or maybe as blue as all the oceans combined. But I can’t. When my gaze rested on your face, I was met with the sight of bandages, circling the space between your hairline and the bridge of your nose. Slowly soaking drying blood. That day, you’d become blind.

The days that followed, I’ll admit, were awkward. I’m certain that you knew I was there, watching as nurses took your blood pressure and spoon fed you overcooked pasta, but you never said a word, never asked if someone could pull the blue curtain around your bed. It was five forty five on a Tuesday that I decided just looking wasn’t enough. I took the spiral bound notebook that lives on my bedside table and tore out a sheet, before finding the sharpest pen I owned. After an hour and three minutes, I’d successfully carved a message into the paper. Here’s what it read:

‘Hello. I’m the one in the bed opposite you. How do you do?’

I folded the note into a paper plane, and sent it across the canyon between us. It poked you in the chest, and you jolted, tentatively picked it up, turning it round and round with curious hands. It took you five minutes to work out that you had to unfold it, and four more to begin deciphering the message, running your fingers slowly across the letters. You finished, and put the note down.

“I’m blind, not deaf. You could’ve just said something.”

My heart sank. I remember scrabbling to tear out another page, forming another note as fast as I could. Folding it. Sending it flying.

'I’m mute.’

Your mouth formed a gentle 'o’ shape. I waited for you to speak again. But the silence stayed, clung to the air like honey on a spoon. After seven minutes, you lifted your hand and felt around on your bedside table. Nothing. You paused. Then reached behind your head, and drew the safety pin from your bandages.

You cut your note into the paper, careful, checking your marks, and retraced my folds to resurrect the plane. Raised it, and launched. A perfect shot - I caught it between my fingertips, and unfolded it, holding it up to the artificial hospital lights.

'I’m well thank you. How are you?’

No sorry. No lengthy paragraph expressing condolences. I looked up, and smiled.

And watched as the gauze began to unfurl from your face, like a flower opening its petals, calm, slow, as if nothing was wrong. You gave me the chance to write about those eyes, Kit. Blood clung to your eyelashes, and streaked down your cheeks like tears. They were bloodshot, red cracks, streaking across your retina and piercing your irises like lightning bolts. I couldn’t have recognised their colour even if I’d wanted to.

They were the ugliest things I’ve ever seen.

I think that I’m in love with you.

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

Wooden Ship, by Milli Lewis

I’d be lying if I said I could vividly remember that day. My five year old fingers still gripped the sleeve of my mum’s coat, and a teddy bear battered with affection remained glued to my side, patiently enduring being dragged across endless pavements. My thoughts were like red string - thick with knots, and not worth untangling, all of the same overly electrified caliber, and slowly building a nest in my brain. But this memory sticks out a little more than the rest; a piece of pink ribbon carefully weaved through.

The sky that day seemed undecided, medical blue dappled with the ivory wisps of reluctant clouds. The people there seemed reluctant too, unsure whether to stay, to endure the looming shadow of potential rain. Unsure whether they were allowed to have fun. But as for me, I couldn’t care less. As soon as we pushed through the gates, my eyes lit up at the sight of a great, wooden ship, infested with children screeching in delight. My flower printed wellies went pattering across the grass and sinking into the sandpit before I knew it. And I saw you. Your hair was the palest shade of blonde I’d ever seen, milky white, glowing, and I need to know why, how that had happened. I immediately dove into conversation, helping you with your sand castle, digging my clumsy hands into the sand with glee.

Distracted as I was, my peripheral vision told me that a crowd of parents had gathered, two women standing closer than the rest. One wore a navy blue duffel coat and stripey gloves, her hair gleaming the same blonde as yours. The other was my mother. Snippets of conversation between them infiltrated my concentration, the blonde woman’s voice tinged with a foreign lilt I’d only heard before on TV shows.

“It’s lovely to see…well they get along…yes, we’re from Sweden…here on holiday…”

I can picture how it must’ve looked, little girls with nothing in common forging friendship in a matter of seconds. They’d talk about how sweet it was, that we’d torn down the language barrier and connected deeply, truly, oh how wonderful childhood was!

You remember it differently. I can still see your eyes, wide with curiosity, fear, moss green like the leaves preparing to fall. A girl infected with energy had tumbled into your life without warning, words you couldn’t understand spilling from her mouth and waiting for an answer you could never give. But still, you handed me your plastic spade. I’d grinned, and so had you. Within an hour, we’d built the best damn sandcastle you’d ever see, turrets plunging into the sky, staircases spiralling into ballrooms where princes and princesses danced the night away, and a moat as deep as the ocean, filled with crocodiles, their jagged teeth sharp enough to keep the bad guys at bay. We claimed the wooden ship as our own, hurling ourselves across the deck, scaling the ladders made of rope, grazing our knees and laughing.

You could’ve tried to tell us that it was special, that moment, insisted that right then we’d been examples to the world at war with itself. But we wouldn’t have cared. We were two children, playing, because that’s what we did. Even if we’d understood each other perfectly, it wouldn’t have affected our fun, lowered the volume of our shouts. Yet it wouldn’t have been the same to our parents. They would’ve exchanged strained smiles, and returned to their store bought cappuccinos.

This is a story of a pair of children doing childish things, that I happen to remember to a certain extent, for no particular reason. Pink ribbon isn’t necessarily better than red string.

No mention has been made that you flew back to Sweden two days later. That I never caught your name. That I never will.

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

Photograph, by Milli Lewis

Lilacs and pinks ascend from heaven, washing our already rosy cheeks, our half-moon eyes, our salt laced hair. My cable-knit jumper hides goosebumps you’d never guess were there upon a look. The fence cuts its signature into our backs as we lean into it, fingers gripping the cold wire, reluctant to let go. Their presence tints the air around me, mingles with the smell of vanilla and overpriced churros. Chocolate dip coats our fingertips; warpaint. Waves serenade us, and the light begins to disintegrate, along with our awareness. We need to take the photo, quick, before it goes, before we forget. The camera clicks. Laughter bubbles over, then seeps into the soil. The moment is dead. At least I have proof that it happened at all.

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

Objective correlative, by Milli Lewis

I am yet to light it. The leaves of the waxy succulent fitting into the palm of my hand are faded, or perhaps designed that way; to be a pale, mossy green. Fake soil supports the plant in a literal clump, textured lightly for more accurate visuals. Soil, real soil, still remains lingering in the corners of my mantelpiece, from when I let Astrid fall to her death, and had to operate. Astrid. My real life succulent. I’m a terrible parent to plants. Astrid keeps the candle company, mocking her I imagine.

“I can photosynthesise and you can’t. Ha.”

I’m sure the candle doesn’t mind. Or maybe it would, if it were sentient. The wick remains unscathed, upright as if triumphant of it’s achievement. There I go again - adding sentience to the inanimate.

It is unscented, smelling dusty if anything, because of course, I’ve let it grow old and cracked on a shelf, not even given it the chance to set alight. I suppose denying it of it’s purpose is disrespectful. But can you disrespect something if it doesn’t know it’s being disrespected? Perhaps I should light the candle, just in case, or a cactus shaped one (I have several variations), letting heat prickle my skin with imaginary spikes, hearing the soft flicker of a tiny flame. Or I could leave it here, put it back on the shelf, and let the dust settle over it like snow.

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

'Til death do us part, by Milli Lewis

Fluorescent lights.

The patient is wheeled in, with paper thin skin, and petrol blue veins laced through their arms.

I glance at my partner. Her cheeks are flushed, from the heat of the operating room. The turquoise of the surgeon’s gown has always suited her - brings out her eyes.

Today’s the day.

“Scalpel?”

“Check.”

“Forceps?”

“Check.”

The liquid coating my gloves fills my vision, as it has always done, but somehow seems a little sweeter, the colour of strawberry shoelaces, or Valentine’s Day chocolate boxes.

“Scissors?”

“Check.”

My hand wraps around something gently beating. I tug. Tendons break.

I sink to one knee, holding out my offering, blood dripping down my wrists and onto the floor.

“Would you do me the honour?”

She gasps.

Beep.

Beep.

Beeeeeeeeeeep.

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

Eye Contact, by Milli Lewis

Someone once told me that, When you look at them, You’re seeing their soul, Interrogating it, Eyes gripping and shaking until truth trickles out.

And it goes both ways, Your gaze ebbing with emotion until it’s Almost too much, My pupils slide to the left, Staring at the tangled stems of a bouquet in a vase, Even the milky glow of those lilies Might as well be black Compared to the supernova that is your glare.

That look comes out when feelings come loose, And spill in silver ribbons, Pool at your feet, As you tell me a man on the train didn’t say ‘Please’ or 'thank you’ when you made room “For his patriarchy”, you’d say. Your eyes demand agreement, and I’ve already given it.

But most of all, You put on that stare, When sadness has seeped from my mind To my face, You can tell, And hold my eyes with your own as if they were our hands, And it’s just enough, For feelings festering in the corners of my mind to bubble up, And stain my cheeks at last.