MILLIE
A Short Story by Matthew Adamson
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011
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MILLIE
I lie alone in my darkened bedroom. I lie in the foetal position, curled into a ball under the duvet. Nothing can reach my within these four walls, nothing can penetrate my castle. I wrap myself in my duvet and take comfort in the folds, imagining a return to the warmth and sanctity of the womb.
And all of a sudden I feel cold. The wind and rain batters the bedroom window and I shiver. I am alone in this world and the knowledge leaves a crushing hole somewhere in the pit of my stomach. My family and loved ones are being taken from me one by one. No one cares, no one loves me.
Somewhere beyond my bedroom door, a telephone rings. It keeps ringing. The shrill tones reverberate around my sombre house, my sombre life, and attack my ear drums like the screams and pleadings of a thousand lost souls.
Then, I hear the click and beep of the answer machine.
A girl’s voice replaces the ringing, such a familiar voice, and yet an utter unknown.
‘Jamie, are you there? It’s Millie. If you’re there, please pick up. I want to talk.’
The voice pauses. I hear her breathing, like she’s lying next to me, breathing close to my ear. She speaks again:
‘Call me, Jamie. Please.’
The next time she calls, twenty-four hours have passed. I haven’t moved. I can’t tell if the sickness in my stomach is my sadness or my hunger. But I don’t want to eat, I don’t want to drink. I don’t know if the sickness in my stomach is my sadness or my hunger, or my illness.
The ringing rips through me again like razor wire. Then, I hear her soft voice, so calm, so disturbing.
‘Jamie, it’s Millie again. Did you get my message? We need to talk, I want to see you. Call me. I love you.’
A week goes by. The blackouts on my curtains protect me from the world outside. I don’t know whether it is night or day, and I don’t know if I am asleep or awake.
‘Jamie, I’ve had enough. Why aren’t you calling me back? Why won’t you speak to me? I know you’re hurting, so am I. But I want to see you. It might help. Call me, please. Or you’ll never see me again.’
I must ring her, but I don’t know how long it has been since Millie called. I step out from between the folded warmth of the womb. I cut my foot on a crumpled lager can and kick open a pizza box. The pizza inside is going mouldy. I don’t care.
I reach the phone and pick up the receiver.
I press the first three digits of her number and then I hear a voice. Cold and piercing down the receiver; screaming at me; cutting at me; killing me.
‘She doesn’t love you! Nobody loves you! They’d rather you were dead, you little disappointment.’
I start to cry, I can’t breathe. I slam the receiver down, again and again, but the voice is still screaming in my ears, laughing at me, goading me – taking pleasure from my pain.
Then I’m back in bed. And the phone is ringing again.
‘Jamie, it’s Millie again. I’m going back to London. You need to pull yourself together.’
The tears flow freely once again.
‘Dad is dead, Jamie, and isolating yourself won’t bring him back. I’m your sister, and I want to help. You know how to contact me if you need to. Take care. I love you.’
I ignore the screaming as I call Millie.
‘Hello? Jamie?’
‘Millie,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry I haven’t called. I’ve not felt up to it.’
‘Jamie,’ Millie says, ‘what you’re doing, it isn’t healthy.’
‘Millie,’ I say, ‘I’ve got cancer.’
I hear her breathing, like she’s lying next to me, breathing close to my ear. Then she apologises, and I start to cry.