Such heaviness. The irregular record of her heart, needle skipping.
She takes a seat close to the back, just in case. The new girl she’d seen him with had the suspicious look of an English Literature student - the kitsch fashion, circular reading glasses, edging on mainstream listening but still indie enough to get away with quoting Foucalt at the SU without being an imposter.
No, I’m being harsh, she thought. She’s probably a sweet person. She probably didn’t even know. Probably everything I couldn’t be for him.
Milly pinches the bridge of her nose. The fluorescent lights make her head throb, teetering on the edge of migraine.
The other seats begin to fill. There’s a faint bouquet of last night’s antics following them. The socials of Wednesday nights blurring into Thursday mornings, unwashed bodies and booze-tinged breath. And it’s not like Milly wasn’t accustomed to the socials - you best believe she was involved in hockey soc and could do at least three pints of snakebite before the room started spinning - but juggling the MA, the reading, hiking and wanting to save up so she and Ollie could travel. Marine biology Ollie.
Wanker.
Blink and you’ll miss it - the lecture begins. Contextualising the Gothic period. Exploring the uncanny, the supernatural, the macabre. Definitely going to be an essay question in the coming weeks, but as the video clip plays on - The Seventh Victim - and Dr. Collins’ lyrical voice so soothing, the lullaby of knowledge, a gentle compress on the mind…her heartrate slows and the head slumps.
*
‘Come with me.’
Voice in the darkness. Mist on the water. A pair of eyes, stone grey.
A hand slips onto her thigh.
‘It’s too late for us now.’
The grip tightens on her leg. Her stomach knots.
‘We will burn together.’
A pull, a scream in her throat - they’re under.
*
‘...and I don’t want to have to write another essay on the patriarchal view of women in the Gothic, that’s so overdone but it’s the only avenue I can go down!’
Her body jumps, knocking the folder onto the floor. The passing girls regard her for a moment, then walk on.
As Milly picks it up, she re-reads her notes:
Borrow Frankenstein - maybe read Carmilla. Is it merely desire at the root of the Gothic?
She shuts the folder and pockets her pen. Swings the backpack onto her shoulder. The hall is almost empty; she follows the last of the students out into the main foyer. Milly’s rummaging in her bag to find her headphones - Bon Iver on repeat - when she knocks into someone.
‘Easy, tiger!’
Oh, that voice. Sharp inhale, bracing. Why, oh why did it have to be today? A silent plea: why couldn’t the ground have reclaimed his body, trees wrapping their roots around his feet to drag him -
‘How have you been?’
Fucking awful.
‘Oh fine,’ Could I be any more convincing… ‘You?’
He regards her. Milly feels his eyes on her clothes, her body. Birkenstocks with socks, the striped pyjama bottoms that nearly look like leggings, the oversized tourist hoodie they got from Berlin.
Ollie lifts his hand to touch her, but pauses. He puts his hand down.
‘Yeah, alright. Missed you though.’
Milly looks down at her feet, shifting her weight. She doesn’t make eye contact.
‘Sure.’
‘Mills, I mean it. Shit, I’m running late, but we should catch up sometime. I’ll text you!’
He touches her shoulder and makes a move for the door.
Not if I throw my phone into the sea.
Milly’s motionless, still regarding her feet. Water drops onto her sandal.
Fuck this seminar.
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