To my penpal who would read this hanging upside-down on the tree,
Me sitting in green seedpod of a lotus, write this piece to you. John just had his third butterfly today, which I hope him not, trying hardly to make him have a sip of milk.
What a pity has it always been. I just got this hit me that maybe spiders just not had some to be with milk long time ago.
Dad gave me a gown as present for my birth, with an embroider of lotus on. For me or another daughter he just made up I guess, same name, same old.
This fabric just not ought to belongs to me, for whom don’t wanna be in a Yule Ball, every breath of boys try to catch a girl so damn hard, don’t wanna grab anyone’s arms to look at the fancy on the street gorgeously. Girls in school are dumb. I hate boys and girls.
I tell my dad it’s okay for me to have some friends. I have friends, dad, a cool penpal. He would go to the church of the muggles, listen to the buzz when they pray, their wishes sound like that. And he looks upon, there are naked religious paintings on the roof, the highest one.
She’s fresh, dad. She my friend dangling on a twig with my next letter.
He asked if your penpal a boy? I said it’s a trick, dad, what’s the point? Gnomes in the garden never put their noses on whether the husband is the 13th child or not.
Got my O.W.Ls scores, lying to mom that I’ve got a P for my Potions, not only has points but a letter in it though. But mom found out, declared that I could take all the classes to be an Auror needs. Gwen told me I’m a good flyer, better not to be in Quidditch plays as she does.
Let mom know that it’s not as I wish, tell Gwen that I won’t because flying too high makes me lose the track of John.
They ask,”Something for your future?” Nothing, nothing really. Just told them I love Uncle Miles most.
Well, he’s actually on the young side, even for me. But just like titling him with uncle and he would let me be anyway.
Not a soul born in May, actually, happened to have the name, for when I was little I gave out too much laughter, for being a damn trouble then, typhoon in the tropical, a tiny one, for monosyllable can let my dad call me easily with Accio. Fine, he didn’t lose the little red-hair-fluffy, such a luck and release, he tells it all to me with certain kind of lost and sigh.
May Day, Mayday! Another interpretation of the symbol, I fled from the cut of his memory.
We should be taught in school that, how to cry for help. Mermaids still breathe when they leave the water, but they scream in high pitch, instead of singing or any other kind of language. They drop out of the attempt to have more communication. They leave it to the ground.
And you hear me scream.
Uncle Miles pushed me a glass with thin layer of firewhiskey in the bottom, he said that let go, girl.
It’s much better than when you finally couldn’t take it anymore so the only way to buy a whole bottle, among the jerks who knows feasting on their sights of your thigh, it’s much better, much better to have us around you now, girl. And the absence of your dad’s overdone care for you, goddamn it, literally to put a bubble-head charm on a mermaid.
He said, may you have a drink.
And I had. Complemented.The butter beer is more in my flavor, Uncle Miles, the one you made me last summer vacation.
Half spoon of liquorice powder, more ice. You have the same taste of Gwen.
Grabbed a cup of butter beer, upstairs. Next day I woke, an arachnid floating in the cup, with no ripple around.
I got a dead John that day. And so many Johns I will have since that day.
Uncle Miles took that cup away, he taught me to identify some species of spiders, and snakes, poisonous ones, for not to have a touch of them.
He said, next time might have Hobie and his tattoo.
I’ve never ever kept a spider, no John. That’s nothing but your story. Saints in your church. Three lines up on the ceiling and you have a dusty spot. So many corners, so many spiders.
You’re not the coolest person I’ve ever met.
How? The bar’s front door with a wooden board with ”CLOSED” curved on. Mid-summer night, ten o’clock. There were unseen droplets in the air, heavy, but no that heavy so they can fall. Stuffy. Que calor. There’s Hobie, threw his left arm on Uncle Miles shoulder, holding a deep mug of clear mint tea, guys were behind the bar counter, shrouded in the dark orange light and a blur. Gwen just beat the drum so had a couple of drumbeats so came the shout from the direction of Hobie. I was sitting by the table I’d choose if I have the chance, it’s in the corner, watching everything was on the play. A cup of butter beer I grab, very icy. Uncle Miles had a drink for Gwen, the same one of mine.
Blur cups, blur lights. Or it’s my eyes, they’re blurred.
Hobie said that he doesn’t believe in mind-blower, it’s not a curse but after it you will be a dead stone, numbed. You think you could shake some pain off so you get drunk? Mate, then you’d be fucked up.
Uncle Miles told him to save it for himself, for Merlin’s sake, obviously he doesn’t put the world out of doubt for a minute.
Giggling, as if there were ice cubes in my throat keep bumping against the glass simply non-stop. Somehow, my hands were touching the cup, a hand left unconscious, really freezing.
Clock ran to half of ten, they told me I have to go.
Sure, I will. I said so. Bye Hobie, bye Gwen, bye Miles. But I’m gonna miss you all.
I flip out of the window.
Get my wandering on the street, have Hobie by my side. He's got a dagger in his hand, playing it in his palm like it’s no danger at least he’s no care. His hands have no scar, and the dagger, it smells of blood.
The edge of my sight is fading, with the only sound of Hobie’s boots stepping on the stone bricks, firmly.
And I see everything.
Dagger up in the air, rolling, one round, two……it hovers over his finger.
I know he’s an addict. We all are. Everyone’s an addict.
I pass him over, reeling alone through the fairly empty Diagon Alley.
Her dress is blowing like a full sail.
I have this look of her, she is glowing, pearlescent, bit of exhausted, both feet bare. She says, not asks, neither to me.
But I’m saying. Since I’ve heard you, then let it fade, gone…… Winds scouring around me.
She holds her head up, eyes a smidge, there’s something above shines on her white dress.
I take my steps forward. I’m on it, it won’t be a mistake.
A silhouette moves around the corner, he spreads the fingers, holds on a wall wasn't supposed to be there.
Brooklyn is such a distance from London. And oh, more, the dawn is breaking.
He holds the spray over his head, I settle myself to the dirt, and there’s he. He’s Miles, the favorite uncle of mine.