Milena
by Finn Brown
I was watching the wasp drown in the orange syrup when Milena arrived. She looked at me and then she looked at the wasp and then she came and knelt down by the glass on the opposite side to me, so that now I wasn’t just watching the wasp drown, I was watching Milena’s face warped by the shape of the glass watching the wasp drown. After the wasp stopped moving, we watched each other.
“Sticky day,” she said. Then she took off all her clothes.
I had never seen a woman naked before, but I knew from the shapes I saw under people’s clothes and the way men’s eyes followed them that this woman was very beautiful.
Milena dragged the metal tub into the yard, and I helped her fill it with cold water. Back and forth from tap to garden we went, balancing liquid in a mixing bowl and the largest saucepan we could find.
When my father came home, Milena was still in the bath, her fingers pruning as I plaited her hair.
He looked at her skin greedily and then scowled at me, like I was tainting her, like I was trying to steal some part of her away from him.
That night, she made us all dinner and when it was time to go to bed, she pulled me into her long arms and kissed the top of my head over and over again. “Sleep well, little one,” she said to me as my father was leading her away, putting a door between us.
The next day, my father left early for work and Milena came to wake me up. She stroked stray hairs off my forehead and asked me what I wanted to do.
“School, I guess,” I said.
Milena rolled her eyes and went to the window, pushing the curtains aside and bathing herself in an oblong of light. “On a day like this?” she said. “Surely not.”
We went out into the fields. Milena let me help her get dressed, doing tiny buttons up with tiny fingers. Then she dressed me in a shirt of hers that she tied with a ribbon so that it looked more beautiful than anything I had ever owned. We ran through grass up to our waists and pulled apples from a tree when we got hungry. I showed Milena where to find the ripe blackberries, and we ate them until our mouths and tongues and teeth were stained with purple.
It was the most perfect day I could remember, and we went home holding hands, and we giggled all through dinner, giddy with the goodness of it.
“Sticky day,” she said. Then she took off all her clothes.
I had never seen a woman naked before, but I knew from the shapes I saw under people’s clothes and the way men’s eyes followed them that this woman was very beautiful.
Milena dragged the metal tub into the yard, and I helped her fill it with cold water. Back and forth from tap to garden we went, balancing liquid in a mixing bowl and the largest saucepan we could find.
When my father came home, Milena was still in the bath, her fingers pruning as I plaited her hair.
He looked at her skin greedily and then scowled at me, like I was tainting her, like I was trying to steal some part of her away from him.
That night, she made us all dinner and when it was time to go to bed, she pulled me into her long arms and kissed the top of my head over and over again. “Sleep well, little one,” she said to me as my father was leading her away, putting a door between us.
The next day, my father left early for work and Milena came to wake me up. She stroked stray hairs off my forehead and asked me what I wanted to do.
“School, I guess,” I said.
Milena rolled her eyes and went to the window, pushing the curtains aside and bathing herself in an oblong of light. “On a day like this?” she said. “Surely not.”
We went out into the fields. Milena let me help her get dressed, doing tiny buttons up with tiny fingers. Then she dressed me in a shirt of hers that she tied with a ribbon so that it looked more beautiful than anything I had ever owned. We ran through grass up to our waists and pulled apples from a tree when we got hungry. I showed Milena where to find the ripe blackberries, and we ate them until our mouths and tongues and teeth were stained with purple.
It was the most perfect day I could remember, and we went home holding hands, and we giggled all through dinner, giddy with the goodness of it.
The next morning, Milena had a welt across her face and said we could not go outside again. “Did someone do that to you?” I asked.
Milena did not look at me. “Something from the dreamworld came whilst I was asleep,” she said at last. “Awful things can happen whilst you’re resting. Be careful.”
I wasn’t satisfied with this answer, but her open face was closed and so I sat at her feet and stroked the light hairs on her shin and did not ask anything else. I wondered if she would make me go to school, but the time to leave came and went and I stayed where I was, and she stayed where she was. At some point, I was too hungry to keep being still, so I sliced bread and tomatoes and fed them to myself and to Milena, who still hadn’t moved by the time I went to sleep that night.
Milena started sending me to school again, and when I came home, she would often be sitting where I had left her, her face pale, her eyes elsewhere. She wore the same dress day and night, and the edges of it started to fray and turn the colour of dirt. One afternoon after school, I pulled the tub out into the garden and filled it painstakingly with water warmed on the stove, but she would not go in. I sat outside in the bath until my skin was goose bumped with cold, and then I emptied the water over the grass.
My father changed, too. He came home later, less ravenous for her. I didn’t mind. I ran home from school to spend my evenings with Milena, to help her cook, to watch her soften as the sun went down, giggles rippling through her. I was not used to seeing the adults in my life laugh—though looking back, Milena couldn’t have been more than 25—and it was a delicious surprise to see a face change like that.
Milena did not look at me. “Something from the dreamworld came whilst I was asleep,” she said at last. “Awful things can happen whilst you’re resting. Be careful.”
I wasn’t satisfied with this answer, but her open face was closed and so I sat at her feet and stroked the light hairs on her shin and did not ask anything else. I wondered if she would make me go to school, but the time to leave came and went and I stayed where I was, and she stayed where she was. At some point, I was too hungry to keep being still, so I sliced bread and tomatoes and fed them to myself and to Milena, who still hadn’t moved by the time I went to sleep that night.
Milena started sending me to school again, and when I came home, she would often be sitting where I had left her, her face pale, her eyes elsewhere. She wore the same dress day and night, and the edges of it started to fray and turn the colour of dirt. One afternoon after school, I pulled the tub out into the garden and filled it painstakingly with water warmed on the stove, but she would not go in. I sat outside in the bath until my skin was goose bumped with cold, and then I emptied the water over the grass.
My father changed, too. He came home later, less ravenous for her. I didn’t mind. I ran home from school to spend my evenings with Milena, to help her cook, to watch her soften as the sun went down, giggles rippling through her. I was not used to seeing the adults in my life laugh—though looking back, Milena couldn’t have been more than 25—and it was a delicious surprise to see a face change like that.
“What was your mother like?” Milena asked me one day. Milena was chopping fruit, and I was eating it messily.
“I don’t know,” I said, sucking juice off my fingers.
“You must know something about her,” said Milena. “Hasn’t your father told you anything?”
“She loved to swim,” I said, through a mouthful of plum.
“That’s nice,” said Milena.
“She drowned herself.”
“Oh,” said Milena. “Did your father tell you that?”
“No,” I said. “They wrote about in a newspaper article. I found it at the library, and I cut it out even though you’re not supposed to do that sort of thing to library books.”
Milena frowned and I wondered if this had made her angry. Then she said, “Did your father tell you she liked to swim?”
“No,” I said, spitting out the plum’s stone onto the flagstones of the kitchen. “But why else would she have drowned?”
“I don’t know,” I said, sucking juice off my fingers.
“You must know something about her,” said Milena. “Hasn’t your father told you anything?”
“She loved to swim,” I said, through a mouthful of plum.
“That’s nice,” said Milena.
“She drowned herself.”
“Oh,” said Milena. “Did your father tell you that?”
“No,” I said. “They wrote about in a newspaper article. I found it at the library, and I cut it out even though you’re not supposed to do that sort of thing to library books.”
Milena frowned and I wondered if this had made her angry. Then she said, “Did your father tell you she liked to swim?”
“No,” I said, spitting out the plum’s stone onto the flagstones of the kitchen. “But why else would she have drowned?”
At school, we had a careers day, and when I got home, I asked Milena what her career was.
She was sitting on the windowsill, one leg in, one leg out. “I don’t like to work,” she said.
“But you can do anything you want. You can be a doctor or a fireman or a carpenter or a fishmonger.”
Milena laughed and her head dropped backwards. “Is that what they told you?”
“The world’s your oyster,” I said because this is what Mrs. Barric had said to us.
“Do you know what an oyster is?” asked Milena, and her eyes were on me, wide and full, just the way I loved them to be. I shook my head.
“They’re sea creatures, slick wet things that live inside shells until they are prised open by human fingers, slipped down throats.”
“They sound horrible,” I said.
“True,” she nodded. “But out of all that slime, they can produce pearls.”
I imagined Milena with pearls around her neck eating oysters in the garden and promised myself I would have a career so that Milena did not have to.
“Why don’t you like to work?” I asked.
“In a workplace, there are many men,” she said. “In the home, there is only one.”
She was sitting on the windowsill, one leg in, one leg out. “I don’t like to work,” she said.
“But you can do anything you want. You can be a doctor or a fireman or a carpenter or a fishmonger.”
Milena laughed and her head dropped backwards. “Is that what they told you?”
“The world’s your oyster,” I said because this is what Mrs. Barric had said to us.
“Do you know what an oyster is?” asked Milena, and her eyes were on me, wide and full, just the way I loved them to be. I shook my head.
“They’re sea creatures, slick wet things that live inside shells until they are prised open by human fingers, slipped down throats.”
“They sound horrible,” I said.
“True,” she nodded. “But out of all that slime, they can produce pearls.”
I imagined Milena with pearls around her neck eating oysters in the garden and promised myself I would have a career so that Milena did not have to.
“Why don’t you like to work?” I asked.
“In a workplace, there are many men,” she said. “In the home, there is only one.”
“Can I see the article?” asked Milena, one milky afternoon.
“Which one?”
“The one about your mother,” she said.
I took the stairs two at a time and pulled the book off the shelf that held it flat. Milena put it down on the table carefully, craned over it, traced each letter with her fingers like she was caressing them.
“Will you read it to me?” she asked.
She sat on a chair, and I sat cross-legged on the floor, leant against legs. “Woman found dead in strong river currents,” I read.
The article talked about the man who found the body. He was in a fishing dinghy with his son. The article said that the currents had been reported to be particularly strong. There had been warnings; signs had been put up. It speculated about whether the dead woman could read. It talked about how long she had been there, how very dead she had seemed, how strange it was that no missing persons reports had been filed when a loved one had been gone for days. At the very end of the article, like they had forgotten about it, it said her name. The name of the dead woman, it said, is Karin Heller.
“I wonder what it feels like to go like that,” said Milena. “To be swept up in all that water.”
“Wet,” I said, and Milena put her fingers in my hair.
“Which one?”
“The one about your mother,” she said.
I took the stairs two at a time and pulled the book off the shelf that held it flat. Milena put it down on the table carefully, craned over it, traced each letter with her fingers like she was caressing them.
“Will you read it to me?” she asked.
She sat on a chair, and I sat cross-legged on the floor, leant against legs. “Woman found dead in strong river currents,” I read.
The article talked about the man who found the body. He was in a fishing dinghy with his son. The article said that the currents had been reported to be particularly strong. There had been warnings; signs had been put up. It speculated about whether the dead woman could read. It talked about how long she had been there, how very dead she had seemed, how strange it was that no missing persons reports had been filed when a loved one had been gone for days. At the very end of the article, like they had forgotten about it, it said her name. The name of the dead woman, it said, is Karin Heller.
“I wonder what it feels like to go like that,” said Milena. “To be swept up in all that water.”
“Wet,” I said, and Milena put her fingers in my hair.
One day, I came downstairs, and Milena was holding large silver kitchen scissors. “Help me,” she said, and I sliced through the tablecloth for her. She sewed quickly and gave me small jobs with clear instructions, a pocket to cut, an edge to hem.
She tried on the dress when it was nearly ready. “I look like a new person in this,” she said to me. “Someone else entirely. What sort of life do you think I could lead in this dress?”
I smiled, delighted to see her smiling. “You could do anything, Milena,” I said. “I know you could.”
For a few days, she was happy, and we ran through orchards instead of going to school and took baths in the garden. My father was away, and I didn’t think to ask where he had gone. We didn’t miss him. We didn’t need him. The house was ours and the fields were ours and the earth was ours and the sky was up because we had asked it to be.
Until it wasn’t.
When I came home from school the next day, Milena was repairing a rip in her lovely new dress. “Already?” I asked.
“A stray nail,” she said, without looking at me.
Before Milena, there had been someone else. A sharp woman who kept a clean house. She used to say that if you drank enough milk and grew them long enough, your nails would be strong enough to gouge a man’s eyes out. She drank gallons.
She tried on the dress when it was nearly ready. “I look like a new person in this,” she said to me. “Someone else entirely. What sort of life do you think I could lead in this dress?”
I smiled, delighted to see her smiling. “You could do anything, Milena,” I said. “I know you could.”
For a few days, she was happy, and we ran through orchards instead of going to school and took baths in the garden. My father was away, and I didn’t think to ask where he had gone. We didn’t miss him. We didn’t need him. The house was ours and the fields were ours and the earth was ours and the sky was up because we had asked it to be.
Until it wasn’t.
When I came home from school the next day, Milena was repairing a rip in her lovely new dress. “Already?” I asked.
“A stray nail,” she said, without looking at me.
Before Milena, there had been someone else. A sharp woman who kept a clean house. She used to say that if you drank enough milk and grew them long enough, your nails would be strong enough to gouge a man’s eyes out. She drank gallons.
The day Milena left was one of the hottest days of the year. Steam seemed to rise off plants, greenery curled.
Milena was standing in the middle of the kitchen wearing her new dress with a small brown bag next to her which was full up. She was soaked through, her hair tight to her face, encasing it, her dress limp.
“You were right,” she said. “Wet,” she said.
I ran to her and put my arms around her stomach.
“I don’t want to drown,” she said. “I want to be able to do anything.”
I nodded into the damp material, collecting all of her into me. I willed the smell of her, the feeling of her skin, the shape of her in my arms to sink into me.
“I’m sorry to leave you with him,” she said. She knelt down so we were face-to-face, noses almost touching, and then she kissed me on the cheek and left through the front door.
When my father came home, I was in the bath eating blackberries. “I’m going to survive you,” I said to him. I watched him with hard eyes until he bowed his head and went upstairs.
Milena was standing in the middle of the kitchen wearing her new dress with a small brown bag next to her which was full up. She was soaked through, her hair tight to her face, encasing it, her dress limp.
“You were right,” she said. “Wet,” she said.
I ran to her and put my arms around her stomach.
“I don’t want to drown,” she said. “I want to be able to do anything.”
I nodded into the damp material, collecting all of her into me. I willed the smell of her, the feeling of her skin, the shape of her in my arms to sink into me.
“I’m sorry to leave you with him,” she said. She knelt down so we were face-to-face, noses almost touching, and then she kissed me on the cheek and left through the front door.
When my father came home, I was in the bath eating blackberries. “I’m going to survive you,” I said to him. I watched him with hard eyes until he bowed his head and went upstairs.
Finn Brown (they/them) is a queer writer and maker whose short stories, poetry, and non-fiction have been published in Queer Life, Queer Love 2 (an anthology by Muswell Press), Booth Journal, Annie Journal, Meniscus Journal, The Bombay Review, and Snowflake Magazine. Their writing has also been shortlisted for the Creative Future 2024 Writers' Award. They have performed at Hay Festival, Last Word and Brainchild Festival as part of the Roundhouse Poetry Collective. They are the editor of t’ART.