Ellie Lockhart
3rd year Creative Writing & English Literature Student @ University of Portsmouth
Ellie Lockhart
3rd year Creative Writing & English Literature Student @ University of Portsmouth
3rd year Creative Writing & English Literature Student @ University of Portsmouth
3rd year Creative Writing & English Literature Student @ University of Portsmouth
I like the colour of the sun. No, not the oranges and pinks and purples and reds of the sky when it sets. Most people only appreciate those. The colours in those final moments before it disappears, perhaps forever. Funny that people only truly notice beautiful things when they’re gone. No, I like the colour of the sun itself. What colour is that, you might ask? After all, you can’t even look at the sun for fear of going blind. So how can you like the colour of the sun if you can’t even look at it? Is it orange, like in the diagrams? Or maybe white, like science tells us is the brightest possible colour? Or maybe it’s just a brown lump of rock and we’ve convinced ourselves it is something it’s not? What is colour, if not a societal construction? How can you like a colour that doesn’t even exist? Easy. The sun is the colour of that tiny glimmer of hope in the most hopeless of times. The sun is the colour involuntary laughter amongst floods of tears. The sun is the colour of an unbreakable promise of return. It’s the colour of the absence of darkness. It’s is the colour of Light.
I should have seen it coming.
Ever since the day I met him, he always wanted change. It started small; the way I dressed, the way I laughed, smiled. But then the adjustments got bigger. More personal. The way I spoke, the way I moved - never preserve, always alter.
We would take a photo. He would edit me beyond recognition before I even got a chance to see it. Even skin tone here, erase a pimple there. It was the way I looked, but that wasn’t how he wanted to remember me. He never wanted me how I was, he wanted me to be his version of perfection. Never preserve, always alter.
When he proposed, he told me I couldn’t have the ring because - after looking at it next to my finger - he decided he had changed his mind and wanted something that was a little more of a ‘statement’. Like a ball and chain. Never preserve, always alter.
We agreed on an understated civil service; limited guests, chilled evening buffet with a little disco and then a weeks’ honeymoon on the coast. So naturally the plans were confirmed as a big white wedding with 150+ guests, a 5 course sit down meal with live music and a 6 month celebration tour around Asia. Never preserve, always alter.
The bridesmaids wanted short baby pink dresses? They ended up in floor length emerald evening gowns. Alter.
I wanted a small bouquet of wildflowers from my parents garden? I got a centrepiece of roses the size of my head. Alter.
I asked my father to walk me down the aisle to Frank Sinatra’s ‘The Way You Look Tonight’? He had already arranged for his grandfather to escort me to Wagner’s ‘Bridal Chorus’, as per his family’s traditions. Alter.
The chicken was beef. The family friend DJ was a 50 piece philharmonic orchestra. The small planned budget was my parents inheritance and leftover mortgage debt combined. Alter.
Alter. Alter. Alter.
So why wasn’t I surprised when that was exactly where he left me? At the altar.
The Girl in The Window is not a girl at all.
The Girl in The Window is a great Bernini masterpiece preserved in magnificent marble.
The Girl in The Window is a shadow bathing in the spaces between the light.
The Girl in The Window is a mirage within the steam tendrils writhing up from cup in her hands.
Or, perhaps
The Girl in The Window is not in a window at all.
The Girl in The Window is burrowed in a nest she fashioned from wood and glass and hanging drapes.
The Girl in The Window is in an box suspended above the ground allowing her to see, but never be seen.
The Girl in The Window is balancing on a ledge between the real world and some unknown abyss.
Or, perhaps
I have been talking to long.
The Girl in The Window is gone.
I think we need to talk. I’m thinking of making a roast for dinner. I’m being serious. If you’re working late, I can wait for the weekend. Please, I’m trying to tell you something. I quite fancy roast, though. You see the thing is, I’ve met someone else. I can always reheat it when you come home. And I know this is hard to hear. Yes, I think I’ll cook a roast. And I know you won’t want to listen. I’ll just set the table for myself. But I think we both know that we’ve been drifting apart for a long time now. I’ll make you up a plate and leave it in the microwave. And she makes me really happy. All you’ll need to do is get your own cutlery from the drawer. I want to spend my life with someone who makes me happy. Fine, I’ll lay a place for you at the table, you’ll just have to heat up the plate. And you haven’t made me happy for a very long time. If you want to wake me to heat it up for you, I don’t mind. So what I’m trying to say is that I’m leaving you. I’ll see you when you get home from work, then. I’ve packed all my things and hired a van. Make sure you drive safe. I’m leaving tonight. Goodnight, darling.
I lift my shoulders to block my ears as I fumble desperately for my earplugs. My fingers search in vain as they come up empty. I have a suspicion, but I hope it’s not true. My manic internal pondering is confirmed as the mob flaunts multiple pairs in their outstretched fingers, their leering gazes sparkling with mutual humour. ‘Looking for something?’ one of them mocks. No, not now, not yet. It’s too soon. How can they know already? ‘So, I think we need to have a chat, don’t we?’ the speaker continues. I reach to clap my hands over my ears but there are already people beside me, grabbing my wrists and pinning them behind my back, leaving me exposed. The speaker continues. ‘A little birdie told me that you have a magic trick to show us.’ I avert my eyes and stay silent, trying to avoid what I know is coming. ‘No? Shame... but I think we should give it a try anyway. Don’t you?’ Grinning maniacally, they start, ‘I he-‘ ‘Please!’ I beg, ‘Please I’ll do anything for you, anything, just please don’t-‘ ‘I heard a rumour that you should shut the hell up!’ And just like that, I know it is all over for me. My jaw clamps immediately shut as if on command, and I know that they know. For a moment they are in silent disbelief, not knowing where to look; at their maleficent leader, or at their prisoner who can’t help but do what they’re told. The silence doesn’t last long, however, as a laugh begins to spread around the room, growing in volume and malicious intent. Amidst the hysterics, the speaker continues. ‘I heard a rumour that you have to do whatever I ask you.’ ‘I have to do whatever you ask me.’ The voice that replies feels detached, like it didn’t come from my mouth. But it did. And I know that I can’t take it back. ‘I heard a rumour that you’re good at getting rid of people. I want to get rid of someone. You’re going to get rid of them for me’ ‘I’m good at getting rid of people. You want to get rid of someone. I’m going to get rid of them for you.’ The voice inside my head is screaming ‘NO!’ but my body doesn’t listen. It can’t listen. It’s not it’s fault. ‘I heard a rumour that the Ambassador and her family are staying in the hotel on the corner of 66th street. You’re going to take this key, and this gun, and you’re going to let yourself into their room and kill them.’ My mouth opens ready to involuntarily reply, but before I can they add - ‘And I heard a rumour that you’re not going to say a word’. Silently, I take the key and the gun, legs carrying me somewhere that I don’t want to go, to do something I don’t want to do.
Three solitary shots. Then silence.