Mila's logs

Empty, white box. Nothing is here besides the two metallic, cold chairs. I find myself in this seat; I forget how I got here. I know that there is no outside. This is the world, and in the world, there is only you and me. Neither of us utters a word. I don’t remember you, but you are barely a stranger. 

I stand up first.

We’re seated merely a few meters apart. Getting to you is easy, and you don’t move out of my reach either. Your arms are bound in your straightjacket, and you look through me with eyes that capture nothing. It’s almost a relief when my hand grabs your stiff arm. I was worried this flesh I extend may be translucent from how clearly you do not see me.

I blink.

We’re now somewhere different, a place that looks like an empty art museum, with halls each leading somewhere.

If we take west, there is a broad, beige dais at the end. It resembles the interior of a cathedral, though missing its savior and the cross. Instead, tranquil water veils over the marble walls, and the delicate light surrounding the space radiates an ethereal feeling of bliss. Yet you know that there is something wrong there, like a bewildering dream that lacks sense and logic.

If we take southwest, the hall continues to get shaded, and we can’t determine what lies ahead. I pull you toward the dim hall. Our hurried steps leave echoes of loafers on polished stone. 

We end up outdoors in a classic gazebo with white paint chipping off at the railings. It sits atop a steep cliff overlooking the sparkling ocean. On the raised ground behind the gazebo is a long, horizontal corridor lined with identical corbels and pillars. The walls are bookshelves that carry thousands of hard-covered treasures. The grande architecture behind it pulls my gaze upwards to the sky. There stands a shadowed castle that I’ve seen somewhere before. Its ominous presence is unnatural to the Eden around it. 

I look back at you. You’re no longer wearing the strange jacket. Maybe you were already wearing that suit and coat when we passed the hall. Only your dead eyes fail to blend into the utopia we are in. I let go of your arm, and you start walking toward the guardrail. I stay in the middle of the platform, gazing out at the panorama with you in the center. 

Leaving you to do what you please, I let myself up on the corridor. The view is even more vibrant from up here. I sit on the floor and cast my eyes down to the gentle flashes of sunset against the waterline. Your footsteps close in behind me and you sit down too. We fall into silence once again.

Your eyes don’t let go of the scenery in front of you.

“Do you want to kill me?” I ask you.

You look away—I flashback to the room of light and what happened there last time. I remember you looked more fatigued with your hair sprawled out, the uncertainty of youth gone from your actions. I remember your hand clasped around my throat without hesitation. I remember the fury and abhorrence that polluted your eyes as they held me in them.

But your eyes widen at my question.

“No.” Something wavered in your eyes, though your voice itself was monotonous. “Not me.” You add.

I hum. The orange sky reminds me of champagne.

Milas logs original

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.