Mila's Graduation

Dawn breaks over the pond. A pastel yellow sun streaks the low horizon and casts the underbellies of the clouds with cotton candy. Behind, a baby blue sky begs to be seen. The saturation surges for just a moment, and then all colour is gone, lost to the daytime light, but just on the horizon, waiting for the sunset.

Mila rises with the sun. Her room faces perfectly east. Eyes fly open, chocolate irises melt into caramel, and the residual sticky sleep is blinked away. She groans, stretches all the way to her fingers and toes, and just as the last bit of colour fades away, she is up and out the back door. It is mahogany, but you wouldn’t know - it’s lost all the paint over the years, as well as its integrity; the bottom corners chipped and exposed, letting in air and ants. Not that Mila could do anything about it. Not that her parents cared.

The air has a chill that rises from the pond. Mila buttons up her brown cardigan. It matches her brown boots. She wears a massive red clip in her hair, it’s fangs unable to hold all the strands. She trundles down the beaten path from her parents house on the hill down to the equally beaten deck. It looks precarious as if three people standing on it together would compromise its splinters of integrity. Mila doesn’t care if she falls. She loves the pond; it’s her secret escape.

Yesterday, she graduated high school, and she bought herself a rose to celebrate: a big, open one, blood red and close to dying, for this very moment. It sticks out of her cardigan pocket like the tail of a newborn kitten. Its fragrance fills her nose.

The deck creaks under her boots. She sits at the edge, watching the still pond. Bugs dance on the water, visible only by dainty ripples. Fish breach and submerge again, stomachs full. Clouds slide across the mirrored surface

She pulls off a petal, rubs it between her index and thumb, and drops it onto the surface, fingers stained red. She does it again, and again, until nothing remains but the bare stem. She throws that too, and it sinks, slowly joining the petals.

Thank you, Mila.

Her head does a full circle, but nobody is there.

Mila, it’s me.

It comes from all around her.

Look down.

She does.

Two red petals make eyes. A ripple is a mouth.

“Are you… alive?”

In a way, yes.

“How do you know my name?”

I see you every day.

“Just like I see you.” She giggles at the thought. The pond smiles.

Yes, just like that.

“You liked the rose, then?”

Very much. Now you can see me.

“It’s pretty cool,” she shrugs. On the stoop there is a commotion of moving air and metal on wood. Mila turns and sees her mom waving her back up. She returns to her new friend with a buzz of annoyance. “I have to go now.”

Would you bring me another gift, Mila?

“Sure! Bye now!” She rises on her crossed legs and skips up the path towards the tattered door, fingers grazing under her nostrils and filling her head with roses.

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“I brought you green grapes.” Her fawn legs collapse on the deck. Today she is wearing a cherry red t-shirt dress and her brown boots. Her hair hangs loose.

Bugs dance on the water in parallel. The pond’s smile glimmers.

What is a grape?

“This!”

The surface of the water breaks with a delicate plop. A wind wafts up from the water. It smells of detritus, leafy and damp. The trees shiver and bristle with a wave of delight.

Delicious. Do you eat these often?

“Yeah, but I also eat a lot of other foods. Like, they also have red grapes!” She throws another.

I would assume you preferred the red ones?

“Why?”

Because red is your favourite colour.

“Riiight,” she says slowly. “But these ones taste better.”

Could I perhaps try?

Everything around her is smiling. She smiles back. “Oh yes!”

The next day, she brings red grapes.

I like green grapes better.

“Me too.” She takes one for herself and throws one to the pond. “And I got you these. So you can see better.”

The front of her red button up has a pocket, and tucked into the pocket are black square glasses. One lens is cracked. She throws them into the water near the pond's face where they float, briefly, before joining the dark water.

How lovely, Mila. You have beautiful eyes.

Blood fills her plump cheeks and chin. Her freckles disappear. “Thank you.”

What else do you like, Mila?

She pauses, chews a grape, throws one to the pond. She thinks of many things she likes - tennis, the human evolution class in school, going to symphonies - but none of those things are presentable, shareable, with her new friend.

Finally, it comes to her. “Animals. I think animals are pretty cool. I even have one! She’s a Boxer.”

What is a Boxer?

“It’s a dog. Well, it’s a kind of dog, and she used to want to play a lot, but now she’s too old to walk up the stairs!” On the right of the pond behind a fence of reeds and willows, a dog barks. She points in the direction. “Like that! That was a dog!”

Your dog?

“No, just a dog.”

There are many, then?

“Tons! People love them, not just me.”

Then they must be a pleasure to have around, then.

Mila agrees that they are.

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Mila and the pond continue to eat grapes as days turn into weeks. They continue to share stories; the pond is not only perceptive, but privy to special things, like the neighbours' secrets. Mila listens, sworn to silence, but even then, who would she want to tell? Meanwhile, she continues to bring the pond small gifts: flowers she picks, every colour of the rainbow, each petal torn from the receptacle; a shamrock green tie with white polka dots; a wristwatch with a black leather strap, the face decorated with blue roman numerals and delicate silver hands sharpened into tear-drop points. The pond thanks her graciously for every gift, enjoying the sights and scents and tastes Mila brings, things the pond was unaware existed. The pond does not know what to do with the necktie or the watch, but tucks them away for safety regardless, awaiting the next day, the next gift.

One day, Mila does not come. The pond pines for her, watches for her in every movement by the shoreline and the docks. The pond tries to play with the strangers on the shore, but none of them can see the pond the way Mila can, or maybe none of them try, and so the day is long and lonely for the pond.

She returns the next day with a dog in her arms. It is very small and squirms in her grasp. Overhead, the sun is bright white. It bleaches the sky. There is no wind, and nothing moves in the air except for the screams of the summer bugs. The pond smells of anticipation.

The dog chokes out its final yelp as she closes her fingers, each with a ring, around its throat. It is a tiny white thing, no bigger than a teddy bear, its fur still clean and baby soft. She is standing over the edge of the dock now, arms straight out. The dog hovers above the water where she holds it from the neck. The small bones in its neck snap, it’s backs legs kicking in synchronicity. It tries to escape once more, but it's jerks are feeble with no oxygen to power them. Finally, it hangs limp.

“I got you a puppy!” she announces with a smile. The sun is too bright and her eyes are liquid pouring from her eyes. She turns her head right and drops the limp dog. A dead smack breaks the blinding surface and casts upon her bare legs droplets of water, cool and refreshing. She inhales the pleasant rotting smell.

Thank you, Mila. You have spoiled me this time.

Mila skips up the path, smiling, eyes teary and hot, face wet and pink. She doesn’t see the blood spatter on her shins.

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The next day, she adds a severed ring finger to the pond's collection and smiles lovingly at the face, eyes rotten red rose petals and the mouth a floating finger. It winks back at her. She swoons.

“Soon, you’ll be complete,” she says. “Soon, you’ll have all the parts.”

I love you, Mila.

The air in her lungs is set free by the shock of the pond's affection. She knows she needs to finish this. “I love you too…”

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On the final day, she arrives on the deck at dusk. The bugs are plentiful tonight, singing in the air and dancing on the pond. The light summer breeze cocoons her in a blanket of ambient sound, and the stars are bright, the water iridescent. The pond radiates electricity, and Mila feels it in her bones.

She wears the red clip again, and a white dress with cherries. Her lips are painted red. In her hand is a brown leather pouch tied shut with gold threat and saturated with blood. Her hand is stained. The pond shimmers with delight.

Mila pulls two eyeballs out of the bag and ties them together by their optic nerve. They need to stay together. The air reeks of raw meat until the eyes join the pond with a gelatinous squish. The pond has a million faces today, and she completes the last one with the remaining full set of teeth in the bag. One by one, with her index and thumb, she pulls one out and throws it to the pond, reminiscent of the early days together.

“Like the grapes!” She is consumed with laughter.

Like the grapes.

When the teeth are done, she can finally see the pond, every unique and splendid face, some made of the reflections of the stars and the clouds, some made of leaves and bugs, ripples and currents. And then she sees the roses and eyes, the smile she adores. The pond holds the dog, strokes it lovingly. They stare at each other.

Mila, would you give me a kiss?

She blushes, but she knows true love, and she drops to her knees, palms on the top of the deck and fingers below, knuckles white. She ignores the splinters as she leans forward, the pond coming up to meet her, the water still too far away. She hinges at her hips, brings her chest and face lower, lower, until the smell of murky water laced with the perfume of death hits her nose. She purses her lips. She feels the cool water on them, and then on the tip of her nose, inside her nose. Her hair hangs down beside her, floating in gentle swirls on the water.

And then she is gone with barely a splash. The pond shimmers with glee in the summer breeze.

All that is left on the surface is the outline of her red lips.