|| we could have had it all ||

[L.C. Milliner]

L.C. Milliner's Journal

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[L.C. Milliner]

One Inch Spike: L.C.’s 18th Birthday

It was snowing when she woke up.

It was also dead silent.

Lyra threw the covers off her body and went to the window, pulling it open to let in the blasting cold air as she stuck her head outside. She smiled slightly as snowflakes floated down and landed on her, making her smile as she closed up the window again. Not even a shiver escaped from her as she wandered through the empty dorm in her pajamas. The sky outside the windows was dark, but streetlights and the half moon bounced off the snowflakes falling down and illuminated the kitchenette and living room through the tiny windows. The clock on the stove told her it was four forty-one in the morning.

The girl took a shower and sighed, running a hand through her hair. She was eighteen. She was alive. She was surviving. The thought alone made her smile as she got dressed and dried her hair, blow dryer low enough that her oblivious roommates continued their sweet slumber undisturbed. She pulled on her wool coat as she walked out of her dormitory door, shoved a hat over her head as she was walking down the main hall, pulled on her gloves as she went down the stairs, and wrapped a scarf around her neck as she passed through the outside door.

Silence greeted her.

The girl shoved her hands into her coat pockets as her boots hit the ground. Her breath came out like a cloud; she blew out through her nose in a steady stream as long as she could, then inhaled the cold air to blow it out of her mouth. Now that she was eighteen, maybe she could try cigarettes, to compare it to the steam that so many children pretended to smoke with. She hummed to herself as she stepped across the sidewalk, leaving a trail of light footprints through the snow that was finally starting to stick after a long night of falling and failing. The girl spun a little as she walked, looking around at the empty campus. No lights were on at this hour. It was too early to be getting up, and too late to be just getting into bed. Even the hardcore night owls had retired for the evening. The hardcore early birds would be up in fifteen to thirty minutes, possibly.

Finding a spot in the middle of the campus, L.C. spun in a slow circle to stare about her before looking up at the night sky. She closed her eyes and let snow kiss her skin and melt into her eyelashes, nature’s tears streaming across her face. She slowly wiped them away and looked down to the ground, thinking for a moment before proceeding with the ritual she had started since she was fifteen and in Hammel. Some nights it would snow, others it didn’t. It almost rained on her sixteenth birthday. She sighed and drew her hands from her pockets, clasping them together carefully. The wool rubbed together and it felt strange, but she pressed on.

“Hello. Up there. It’s, ah, me again. Another year has passed. It hasn’t been kind, but hey, I won’t complain. I was wondering how you were. I was wondering how Magda was. I miss her, you know. Tell her I said hello, if you could. I know.... She’s safe with you. I uhm, wanted to ask something this year. I haven’t before, so I was thinking... You know. Maybe... You could help me since I haven’t asked for much. I actually haven’t asked for anything. Maybe.” L.C. looked back to the sky and to whatever God she was speaking to, letting snow fall on her face. It was getting heavier. It was dusting her shoulders. “I don’t.... I don’t want to be alone anymore.” She confessed, looking around her as if to prove her point. “I don’t want to be alone. I’m tired of being by myself and I was hoping you could find me someone. I don’t want a lover, or anything like that. I just want... A good friend. Someone who will like me for who I am and not who I pretend to be. That’s all I want. Thanks. Amen.”

Unclasping her hands, the girl turned on her heels and began walking back to her dorm to make hot chocolate and enjoy her birthday, even though she had to be at classes in two hours. As she walked along the sidewalk, to the right of her old footprints, she began to chant to the rhythm of her footfalls.

“Remember, remember, the fifth of November.” She spun in a circle as she saw a light flick on upstairs. “The gunpowder treason and plot.” She reached the door to her dorm building and looked out over the courtyard, where a thin blanket of snow was starting to cover the grass. She smiled and looked to the sky, to the streetlights, to God.

“I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.” She whispered to the world, to the light on upstairs, to God, to the streetlights.

Then, she smiled and shut the door behind her.

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[L.C. Milliner]

Two Inch Spike: The Final Will and Testament of Lyra Camille Milliner

I, Lyra Camille Milliner, being of sound mind and body, hereby declare this to be my last will and testament. I hereby revoke all previous wills and codicils. Meaning, I declare any other wills I may have made as a child are null and void from this point forth.

I have died at age fourteen. Do not cry for me; I am in a better place now. I am with people who will love me and I am happier here then I ever was when I was at the carnival. Do not wish for me back, if you love me; I hope I will never need to return. I give everyone my best and my love, or what is left of it.

To my brother, I leave all my valuable things with the knowledge that you will sell all that you can for cigarette money. I sincerely hope that you will sell my necklaces to Amelia Blaine, the tightrope walker’s daughter, because she is a sweet girl and she always wanted them. As for the rest of it, I hope you make some decent money off it, and all that you can’t sell I hope you will keep and not throw away, if only to sell them to someone later on.

To Mr. Anderson, the ringmaster, I leave all my costumes, and you rat bastard, you better not put them on any more impressionable young girls who want to be the center of attention. I give this advice to all girls who like the blue sequins of my ‘Blue Butterfly’ leotard: the beauty is not worth the pain it will bring you. I also leave you my silver hoop, in hopes that you will put the act away now that I am gone and it will collect dust in the closet. I leave you my golden hula-hoop with hopes that some girl will learn to use it and will be talented enough that she can keep her feet on the ground while she uses it.

To Murphy, the strongman, I leave my childhood hopes of having a Father. I know you tried to be the best surrogate father you could be, even when you drank too much and cried on me because your son committed suicide and your wife left you. I know you wanted to protect me and that is why you ran off all those town kids when I was younger and cut my hair whenever my Mother did it wrong. Your son’s overalls will always have a place in my clothing. Some people blame you for me not having any friends and for my lack of poise, but I could not ask for more. You wanted to protect me and toughen me up, since you could not protect your son from getting bullied at school. You wanted to make it so words would never hurt me. I hope I was the best boy you never had.

To Yue-ming, the contortionist, I leave you with the pride of knowing that I will be the most flexible girl in the world. I can touch my toes, bend backward and grab my ankles, and I finally managed to achieve the lotus position a few weeks before this was written. I will be lithe for as long as I live. Your tricks have made me quarters and dimes for food when I was starving and had nothing to eat.

To Helena, the lion-girl: you still creep me out. But you were the best playmate when it came to beating all those boys. We sure showed them, huh? I leave you with all my titles, including ‘Heavyweight Champion of the Big Top’, ‘Hide and Seek Reigning Champ’ and, of course, the prestigious title of ‘The Girl Who Ran the Boys’. I hope that you will carry on the tradition and will get a protégé, so we carnival girls won’t be simpering idiots like our Mothers.

To Harold Wayne, the albino: I leave you with all my books and my magnifying glass, so you can read them without having to squint. Hopefully they will expand your already extensive and considerably intricate vocabulary. If not, well, you will learn a lot more about science. If you would; please take them back to their respective libraries when you are done. I am sure they will appreciate getting all their stolen books back.

And finally, my Mother, I leave you with all that you gave me; nothing. I hope that your smoking will kill you like it killed your chances of ever getting a decent man. I hope you will have no more children so they will not end up like my brother and I. We have endured enough, and no other child should have to go through your gauntlet of torture. I hope that I will never see or hear from you ever again.

Lyra Camille Milliner is dead, but like a phoenix, I will rise again, this time as something new and beautiful.

My name is L.C. Milliner, and I have witnessed this document and state that the maker is of sound mind and body.

[L.C. Milliner]

[L.C. Milliner]

Three Inch Spike: Fear Me

It only takes one.

It only takes one incident for everyone to view you differently. For me, it was an incident that, while only lasting five seconds, would become engraved in everyone’s memories for years.

---

For her, she could barely remember the events leading up to it. It was a debate that lasted for years- had she just snapped? Or was it just the continual ridicule, piling on and on? All she remembered was the teasing, the pointing, the insults. She remembered the girl, getting in her face, treating her like dirt. She was a carnie. Oh, the girl said it with such disgust. It was like a racial slur. It was just a word, L.C. told herself. It was just a word. Only she could give power to it. Without her, there was nothing behind it. Dr. Neville told her that.

It was a lie.

She could feel the venom, the scorn, the hatred, all exploding in that one little word. It was the catalyst that made her anger grow. Every day, she heard that word. It triggered the rage that had been building up inside of her. And when the girl finally spit that word at her again, L.C. dropped her books, turned, and slapped the girl.

The next five seconds were a rush as people screamed. She felt the warmth on her hand but didn’t realize what it meant, not for a moment. But as red blood dripped onto the white tiles of the school, the girl began to scream and clutch her face. L.C. was in shock as she stood there, hand still raised. When did she unleash her spikes? When did she give the internal command to allow them out? There was a rush as people pulled L.C. away. The girl went to the hospital, her face ripped to shreds down to the bone. There was solitary confinement, yelling, criminal implications. L.C. couldn’t begin to comprehend it all. She wrote out an apology. And another. She wrote out an apology that was ten sheets of paper long. The girl had been worked on by a meta with restorative abilities; she had scars on her face, but she was fine, physically. The emotional and mental scarring, however, was much deeper. She was rumored to be afraid of anything made of metal, now. The sight of scissors made her faint.

The girl was in the high school- she graduated before L.C was even a freshman. But whenever their eyes met in the hall, on the off chance that they passed one another, there was that look in her eyes- terror. She was terrified of a girl that was four whole years younger than her.

---

That incident turned into a legend, the legend into myth. There were rumors flying around now that L.C. Milliner had slapped someone’s face clean off. She had put a girl in the ER. In a coma. In the morgue.

The rumors grew. Her story was legend. She was legend. But she wouldn’t put a stop to it. Not because she liked the attention, no. It was nice to be respected, but not feared. No, she kept it going. She let it grow. She even helped it along. Not because she was satisfied with it.

Because it kept people away. And if she could keep them away, the monster inside of her would have nothing else to destroy.

Only her.

[L.C. Milliner]

Four Inch Spike: My Kristallnacht

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Janina always said there was a separate God for children, and when they lowered her into the ground that day you could bet that the God she was talking about was watching over Lyra. While all of the carnival gathered in black around the grave of their wonderful ‘Gypsy Magda’, Lyra ignored all reason and sat in the back, clad in a T-shirt and shorts with sandals that were meant for boys. Murphy, the strong man, sat on her left, sweating in his suit but still had an arm around her. Her eyes were dead. Her hair was limp. Her skin looked pale, and even her cheeks looked sunken in. There were dark circles under her eyes like she hadn’t slept in days, and they were also rimmed with red. She looked like an orphan.

The Bostonian kept his promise to Magda and kept Lyra away from the viewing and as far as he could from the funeral. The little girl wanted to sit in the back anyway, away from the people who knew Janina longer. The carnival freaks lined the front- the bearded lady, Harold Wayne, the albino, the contortionist, and, of course, Mr. Anderson, the ringmaster and leader of the carnival. There were a few reporters scattered about- a holocaust survivor turned carnie always made for an interesting story.

Once everything was over and done, the two of them sat by the mound of dirt in the cemetery and stared at it for a while. He tried his best to talk to her, but in the end she just stayed silent and he left her alone. She didn’t leave the grave, even at night- Murphy came out and tried to take her back to the carnival lot, but she kicked and screamed loud enough to wake the dead. She didn’t say anything- just screamed and screamed. He left her where she was. When she finally went to sleep he put his jacket over her and he slept sitting up against another tombstone, arms crossed, face drawn into a frown. He was too old for this. The angel above him agreed- even it was bowing its head, tired from a lifetime of watching over the dead.

The next day she sat in front of the grave all day again. It was cloudy, threatening rain, but nothing would make her move. She just stared at the tombstone and the settled topsoil in front of her. She didn’t even move to go eat- Milly brought her meals and sat them on her lap. She would eat then, but something about it made her look almost like a stray animal- she would look at the food with distrust before taking small, choppy bites. Once she was done Amelia would take the plate back.

It rained that night, and it rained hard. Murphy had to rush out of his trailer to get Lyra because she still wouldn’t come inside. Lightning cracked overhead as he pounded down the streets, umbrella forgotten. He heard a yell behind him and turned to find Harold Wayne trailing behind him, the albino comfortable in the dark of the night. Both of them sprinted like madmen to the cemetery. Murphy was cursing all the way; he promised Janina he would protect her ward with his life.

Once they got there they saw Lyra- she had covered her head with her arms and was sitting at the base of the tombstone Murphy had slept under just the night before, the one of the praying angel. Once they got closer they saw she was shivering and totally drenched. Murphy pulled on her while Harold stripped his waterproof jacket off, throwing it over her. She screamed and twisted in their grip, lightning punctuating her anger as the downpour grew worse.

“JUST LEAVE ME, JUST LEAVE MEEEEE!” She screamed, punching Murphy with all of her strength, wriggling out of his grasp. Harold managed to catch her and she slammed a hand into his face, leaving a muddy handprint on his cheek that washed off a few moments later. Harold dropped her, and once her feet touched the ground Murphy hoisted her up by her armpits, trying to throw her over his shoulder. He shuddered as the wind slapped him and Lyra escaped from his grasp again. “I’M NOT GOING! I’M NOT! I’M NOT!”

Murphy grabbed Lyra by the shoulders and turned her, only to find her sobbing uncontrollably- she was just as scared of the storm at they were. Lightning illuminated her face- her lips were blue from the cold. If he left her out here she would catch pneumonia.

“Lyra, she’s gone now!” He tried to reason with her. Harold said something about getting Yue-Ming and ran back to the lot, leaving the strong man and the aerial hoop artist all alone. “She’s dead, Lyra!”

“SHUT UP!” She punched Murphy’s arm weakly and tried to shake his grasp. “SHE’S WATCHING OVER ME! SHE PROMISED SHE WOULD WATCH ME! SHE DID! SHE PROMISED ME!” Lightning struck nearby, a loud crack rivaling Lyra’s outcry. Murphy pulled her into a hug and she sobbed furiously, trying to pry herself away.

In record time Harold showed up with Yue-Ming, who pushed Murphy away and started hushing Lyra, pulling her close and running a hand over her hair. The storm, if possible, was getting worse. Neither of the two thought to grab an umbrella. “Precious, oh precious...”

With a hard shove Lyra pushed the Asian woman away, stumbling backward so hard that she fell. “DON’T CALL ME THAT! ONLY BABUSHKA CAN CALL ME THAT!” The three adults all pulled on her to take her away, but she just screamed and tore out of their grasp.

Finally, Murphy grabbed Lyra’s shoulders and shook her, frustrated by the weather and by her reluctance to go back. “JANINA IS DEAD, LYRA. SHE’S IN A HOLE IN THE GROUND AND SHE’S NOT COMING BACK.” He realized the gravity of what he said only after he said it, and Lyra stared at him, dumbfounded. She was shaking violently as he picked her up and carried her off quickly before she could regain her composure. Harold ran ahead to tell the carnival vet what was going on so he could look at Lyra, Yue-Ming stayed with Murphy as she two sloshed back, soaked to the bone.

“She loves me.”

It was so faint that Murphy barely heard it over the rain, and Yue-Ming didn’t even catch it. “What?”

“She said so. She said she loves... me.”

Hearing Lyra talk about Magda in present tense like that broke Murphy’s heart, and he smoothed a hand over her hair, biting his lip. “She does love you, sweetheart.”

“Then why did she leave me?”

She was half drowned and shivering like it was winter outside when they pulled her into the vet’s trailer and stripped her clothes off. They drew a warm bath for her- warm, not hot- and put her in it, trying to warm her up again. She passed out in the bath- either out of exhaustion or shock. Murphy sat in the kitchenette’s booth as Yue-Ming washed her up and put her to bed in the bunk above the driver’s seat. One of her arms dangled down and the four of them sat in the RV until morning came, running off of caffeine and adrenaline.

---

The six-o-clock news showed a fallen tree in a cemetery the next morning and Murphy couldn’t help but gasp and almost spill his coffee on himself.

The tree trunk was caught on the statuette of a praying angel, the branches around it snapped.

When Lyra woke up he turned off the TV and helped her down from her bed, letting her sit on his lap as the tiny ten year old curled into a ball. She wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without someone with her- otherwise she’d run off again, and they didn’t need her seeing the cemetery in the state it was in. She was abnormally compliant.

By mid-morning they were on the road again- Harold was driving the RV he and Murphy shared, Lyra was resting in Murphy’s bunk. Her mother didn’t even seem to care that she hadn’t seen her daughter in days- she probably didn’t even bat an eye when she saw the morning news. Someone else had taken care of her daughter for her, as always.

A muffled sentence came from Lyra as Murphy read in the passenger seat. He stood and made his way to her carefully. “What’s that?”

“I’ll never love anyone again.” Lyra muttered, curling up on her side. “Not ever.” She curled in tighter, and he could see her shoulders shaking. She was crying. “Everyone... just leaves anyway.” She whispered, choking out the words.

Murphy wasn’t sure what to say. “Never is a long time, honey.”

Lyra considered this before speaking again, her tone awfully resigned for a ten year old.

“...I know.”
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[L.C. Milliner]