Short Story (Jun 10)

At the age of fourteen Melissa watched Amélie, and as a result lost the capacity to ever be fully satisfied with her life.

She never recovered from the ideas which quietly entered her mind that day. While other little girls laughed loudly and scratched the names of boys onto their pencil cases, Melissa sat alone in the front row of the cinema. She would hug her knees, tiny against the enormous screen, and gaze up at beautiful optical illusions created by powerful beams of light. If she screwed up her mind's eye and squinted hard she could almost see herself up there.

She liked it when the colours were just a little too bright to be realistic, the dialogue a little snappier than real speech. Her favourite films remained with her long after the cinema had closed, and had the power to draw her into another world. In this world sinks did not become blocked and men did not lose their hair unless they could carry the look. And when she dwelt among these glamorous giants, she found that she knew how to slant her eyes ironically and say clever things about philosophy, how to smoke expertly with casual nonchalance.

Throughout her teenage years Melissa pictured her own own death. She would be found in a pool of dark blood, her eye make-up perfectly intact and her lips ruby red. Her lover, his face still unclear, would lift her head in his arms and whisper please don't die, I love you. But she would die anyway, with a dignified sigh, because she refused to do what any man told her to do.

Part of Melissa attempted to control her tendency to fantasise. Part of her grew beyond teenage-hood and learned to budget time, money and emotions in the proper way. She began to set aside an hour and fifteen minutes every day in which to indulge the part of her mind which refused to let go of childish interests.

She would sit in front of the mirror in the hall and carefully apply ruby red lipstick, reduce the size of her nose and add a beauty spot just above her left cheek. Then she would glide around the kitchen preparing dinner in a cloud of delicate fragrance, effortlessly elegant with just a hint of childish naivety. Strings hummed and strummed around her head, emotively but not intrusively. She murmured to herself in what she imagined to be French. If Frank entered unexpectedly she would pretend to be singing softly.

Melissa knew that this self-indulgent daydreaming was a vice; she knew that daydreams act as a distraction from reality, and therefore can be dangerous; she knew that every day she walked the thin and dangerous line between reality and illusion, and every day she was in danger of tripping over it with a hot plate and staining the kitchen floor. Every day she reminded herself of these facts.

And so at the age of thirty, the age at which she had always planned to die, it was high time that Melissa received a subtle warning sign, a carefully orchestrated twist in her tale, designed to pull her sharply back to safety.

It happened on a wet Wednesday. She was stirring a large pan of beetroot soup and thinking about her lover Jean-Claude, a Parisian guitarist with just the right amount of facial hair, when in a moment of carelessness she lost her grip on the wooden spoon and allowed it to drop into the pan.

Without thinking, she instinctively plunged her hand in to retrieve the spoon, forgetting that the soup was almost at boiling point. In the split second it takes the mind to register pain she realised that her scalded skin would be excruciating, but immediately after this thought she was overwhelmed by confusion and amazement – there was no pain. Perhaps her all-consuming love had deadened her senses; perhaps in this dreamy state pain could not touch her; for she realised, dipping her finger into the soup to test herself, that although she was aware of the heat it did not burn her.

Curious, Melissa decided to test herself further. She removed the pan from the heat and, breathing deeply, plunged her hand into the flame. She stood motionless in horror, fascination and delight, watching the blue fire gently tickling her skin. But as she reached to turn up the gas, Melissa sensed a movement behind her. She started self-consciously and spun around, expecting to see Frank, but there instead stood none other than her Parisian amour, Jean-Claude.

Tu es mon petite malheureusement...Jean-Claude murmured into her ear as he grabbed her around the waist. Strings swelled tumultuously in the background. She attempted to release herself from his arms, whispering non non Jean-Claude, Frank will see! but he showed no sign of understanding.

Jean-Claude let out a sudden gasp and leapt away from Melissa. The camera panned round sharply. Melissa's back had been pressed into the knobs of the gas stove, and the flames had grown huge – the whole counter-top had caught fire. Seeing this, Melissa leapt back from the flames, pressing her fingertips daintily to her O-shaped mouth as the camera zoomed in.

Luckily, Jean-Claude was a man of action. With one arm he shielded Melissa from the danger-less flames, and with the other he scooped water from the sink with the yellow basin which Melissa usually used for the washing-up. The camera shot him from a dramatic angle as he swiftly and expertly doused the flames. But instead of the rasping hiss which Melissa had expected, the crackling of the flames melted into a rich harp glissando, and through the smoke she was stunned to see hundreds of tiny yellow and white butterflies rising from the kitchen counter.

Melissa clapped her hands and laughed delightedly as the butterflies filled the room. They circled her knees, landed on her hair and covered every dingy surface. A hundred or so settled on the washing machine, which was in the middle of a cotton cycle, making it look like a vibrating bush in full bloom.

Turning her shining eyes to Jean-Claude, Melissa saw that he too was laughing. He embraced her once again and they were instantly enveloped by butterflies. The camera spiralled around them, the orchestra building to a crescendo.

As Jean-Claude held her in his arms, Melissa knew without a doubt that she was the happiest she had ever been, or ever would be again. But as they stood there and the butterflies gradually receded, his grip on her began to weaken, and Melissa felt tears on her face.

What is wrong, mon ami?she asked, and Jean-Claude hesitated for a second before replying I am dying, I am dying.

Melissa was stunned. How can this be?

The camera moved over his eyes, then hers, then his.

There is no reason. There is no logic. How can there be logic if there is no script?

His breaths came short and sharp. The notes of a painfully quiet piano solo fell like rain in the background.

You overreached, ma cherie amour. You do not even speak French.

His eyes became filmy, his voice choked. A muted cello held a single note.

You have broken every rule of film, cherie. You are not supposed to hear the click when the reels change.

Little brittle breaths. Imperceptible piano.

Ah, ma belle, I pity you, I do. Are you truly unable to live in a world where there are no butterflies in your kitchen?

End scene.

Frank found Melissa on the kitchen floor in a pool of dark blood. His first instinct was to lift her head and cradle her in his arms, so he did, although it went against his first aid training. But what can we do in such situations except what we have seen in films?

Melissa, he whispered, although it made no sense to whisper. Her eyes flickered open and shut. It was only then that Frank noticed the pan lying next to her. He sniffed the blood and recognised the familiar odour of beetroot.

He moved her into recovery position and went to call an ambulance.

Melissa had always preferred films which ended with a moral, overt or otherwise. Not a lesson as such, but some sort of final point which she could carry away with her, a message. Her own moral was perhaps not what she would have wished, but she could not feel bitter about this. After all, in this life we so rarely get what we wish for. We cannot write our own endings. We cannot dream beyond our means. And those who dream of dying young in their lovers' arms will invariably end up with a mild concussion, a long life, and a floor stained with beetroot soup.