Carnivale

The words had never meant much to her - they were simple, comfortable nouns. The context behind the conversation escaped her but Emma believed the words had been dipped in deprecation, alongside an accusation of childishness. ‘Ferris Wheel’, however, was the bone that lodged itself in her throat and wrapped her tongue tightly like a red ball of yarn. The delicate ‘r’s’ sank into a throaty ocean of gurgles, where the rest of the letters hung, connected in an incoherent string.

She would never forget it.

What has become of you Emma?​, she panicked as her body sagged heavily against marbled kitchen bench, where she had been busily preparing breakfast. The smell of honey and coffee hung lazily in the air.

I’d best get over this dizzy spell, I wouldn’t want to worry Lucas. Terrible, making a scene in the middle of a conversation​. The coffee pot had fallen and shattered, leaving an oaken river that weaved itself through the caramel coloured shards on the tiles.

Now look what you’ve done you silly girl, someone could cut themselves​. The man opposite watched her in a fearful trance and Emma tilted and contorted to stay upright. He left his breakfast untouched. ​How embarrassing, for this to happen now of all times.

The toast is getting burnt.

When Emma woke she was engulfed by a harsh white light. Her milky blue irises contracted - trying to achieve a sense of stability and control - eventually they accepted the impressionistic view of the plain room in frame. Emma felt as though half of her was sewn together and filled with sand, like a floppy old doll - the ones that had smiles embroidered with red thread.

“Mum, you’re awake!” said a young voice.

“You gave me a fright.” Lucas murmured as he drew closer to her, the flushed red in his cheeks clouding his constellation of freckles.

He’s been crying​ Emma thought, ​he’s always been an emotional boy. He seemed to be made of tears​. Emma recalled how he used to wail whenever she left the crust on his sandwiches. Blueberry jam, no butter, no crust and cut diagonally into small triangular wedges.

Lucas talked endlessly of the event and the future until all he said blurred like her vision. The moment seemed endless, caught in time. All of her moments had felt that way since she woke. In the back of her head was the dark silhouette of the wheel, reminding her of what she lost, reminding her of how her time was running out. Weeks passed this way, the Ferris Wheel never leaving her, forever turning at its unnatural pace - not too fast or slow - in its eerie middle ground it taunted her.

When he was small, it was bacon, eggs and fried mushrooms for breakfast. Lunch was blueberry jam sandwiches - his favourite - and dinner... Emma was sucked from her comfortable memory by the young man who stood before her.

“Mum, I’ve got some good news.” Lucas crouched to her level, the routine smile on his face, today the edges creased with melancholy. Emma sat in her chair in an infantile silence, her eyes goggled in anticipation.

“I met a girl today. I think you’d like her” Emma gave a wobbly smile.

He deserved everything with what he’d been through, I can’t remember the last time he mentioned something purely about himself. How lonely he must feel, not having a two sided conversation with someone for so long​. Lucas processed her smile and returned it with far more grace.

“She’s invited me to have dinner with her tonight, I think I’m going to go. I’ll get you your dinner of course, I just might need to give it to you earlier”

Go!

Emma wanted to scream, but only managed to convey with a simple nod.

Lucas served her leftover pumpkin purée from the night before. Spoonful by spoonful Lucas babied over Emma, occasionally dabbing the wet corners of her mouth with a heavy white napkin.

Ritually, Emma was enveloped in the cool white of her bedsheets. She lay blanketed by darkness. The muffled sound of doors opening, closing and the youthful performance of dressing, zipping and unzipping echoed in her ears. It comforted and disturbed her. From her feverish thoughts emerged the Wheel. Emma’s glazed eyes dwelled on the faded photograph of a child and his mother sitting in a melancholy silence on the bedside table. Eventually, her breathing slowed to a gradual resonating stop. But the Ferris-Wheel kept turning. Spinning. It’s rotations now for another.