The Doctor & The Dictionary
By Natalie Rose
I wrote this short story based on this photograph by Christopher McKenney.
All photography rights belong to Christopher McKenney Photography.
All photography rights belong to Christopher McKenney Photography.
Click click click click. Tick tick tick tick. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The doctor walks in, the room is stifling and painted in the sickly yellow of a dying day. She lay still and stiff, her arms straight at her side as if she were in a coffin, except her dark eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling. They slowly came to rest on the Doctor’s face and her dry lips peeled apart:
‘Get me out of here.’
Her eyes black and shining like a deer, her damp hair crawling across her face like tentacles. She gently stroked the deep purple bruise that ran across her neck and he fell in love with her.
When he took her to her home, he never left. Their lives grew naturally together and they became entwined.
On his side of the bed lay Grey’s Anatomy, on hers, a dictionary. She would glance over her book, her black orbs flitting between the text and his face.
‘Do you think your work is honest?’
‘Of course. Don’t you?’
She smiled sweetly at him and pointed at the diagram. ‘This, this is a heart?’
He nodded.
Then she giggled and shook her head. ‘It is nothing but empty lines. Science is cold and we bow down to this false sense of fact. This does not explain what I am made of, what is inside of you, what is inside me.’ Still smiling she ripped the page, scrunched it up and burst into a fit of giggling. He was entranced.
Her eyes black and shining like a deer, her damp hair crawling across her face like tentacles. She gently stroked the deep purple bruise that ran across her neck and he fell in love with her.
When he took her to her home, he never left. Their lives grew naturally together and they became entwined.
On his side of the bed lay Grey’s Anatomy, on hers, a dictionary. She would glance over her book, her black orbs flitting between the text and his face.
‘Do you think your work is honest?’
‘Of course. Don’t you?’
She smiled sweetly at him and pointed at the diagram. ‘This, this is a heart?’
He nodded.
Then she giggled and shook her head. ‘It is nothing but empty lines. Science is cold and we bow down to this false sense of fact. This does not explain what I am made of, what is inside of you, what is inside me.’ Still smiling she ripped the page, scrunched it up and burst into a fit of giggling. He was entranced.
A bird from the garden flew into the window, crushing the life out of itself. They baked a black cake to honor the bird and they would pretend the cake was poisoned and die choking. He watched her come back to life laughing, her neck and wrists so delicate, he imagined her skin to tear like crisp paper. He went to put away the cook book when he realized it was the dictionary. It sat covered in flour with hundreds of pages folded. He flipped to one and it read: death.
They would camp in the forest in candle light at the back of their house. Where they used to sit up and talk all night she would now sit up intently glaring into her dictionary. The huge book with pages yellowed and the red cover cracked made her look like a child, legs crossed, eyebrows furrowed in manic search.
‘Why do you always read that? There are plenty of books in the library to fill your head with demons, forests, heartbreak…’
They would camp in the forest in candle light at the back of their house. Where they used to sit up and talk all night she would now sit up intently glaring into her dictionary. The huge book with pages yellowed and the red cover cracked made her look like a child, legs crossed, eyebrows furrowed in manic search.
‘Why do you always read that? There are plenty of books in the library to fill your head with demons, forests, heartbreak…’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Fiction.’
‘Lies.’
‘Fiction.’
‘Lies.’
She stared at him in a matter of fact way, then:
‘I have these feelings,’ she pointed to her head, then her heart and then deep into her stomach. ‘And I have trouble… translating them.’ Her eyes were always glazed, as if on the brink of crying, but this time, a tear spilt over the edge and silently crept down her face.
Soon after, she could not seem to keep away from the dictionary. He would wake up in an empty bed with empty thoughts. And then he would hear it, the scrape of old pages being furiously turned over and over and over.
And over.
And over.
And over.
When they ate, she would pick at the food tentatively, staring at the light glimpsing off her fork, her other hand lay on the dictionary like she was making an oath.
They would dance together, till early in the morning. The scratchy record player became a puppeteer, jangling and twisting her bones around while she closed her eyes and seemed at peace. Her eyes would snap open in panic once the music stopped and she would run to the table and grasp the book. She would then slump into his lap and make a grim, strained smile. He knew it was the best she could do and he held her, while she held the book.
He explored her house like reading brail. He ran his fingers along the shelves, picture frames, chairs, his fingers finding there way into cupboards and drawers. He opened a heavy wooden draw with a thunk and he felt like he had jumped out of a window, falling
Soon after, she could not seem to keep away from the dictionary. He would wake up in an empty bed with empty thoughts. And then he would hear it, the scrape of old pages being furiously turned over and over and over.
And over.
And over.
And over.
When they ate, she would pick at the food tentatively, staring at the light glimpsing off her fork, her other hand lay on the dictionary like she was making an oath.
They would dance together, till early in the morning. The scratchy record player became a puppeteer, jangling and twisting her bones around while she closed her eyes and seemed at peace. Her eyes would snap open in panic once the music stopped and she would run to the table and grasp the book. She would then slump into his lap and make a grim, strained smile. He knew it was the best she could do and he held her, while she held the book.
He explored her house like reading brail. He ran his fingers along the shelves, picture frames, chairs, his fingers finding there way into cupboards and drawers. He opened a heavy wooden draw with a thunk and he felt like he had jumped out of a window, falling
down
down
down
down
His stomach clenched and his eyes wide he picked up the rope.
‘Why would you keep this?’
‘Why would you keep this?’
She was digging a whole in the garden and looked up at him with a face of milky white innocence. Her hands and feet covered in mud, she stood up and took the rope into her own hands turning the object over like she was trying to solve a puzzle. Then -
‘It’s truth.’
‘This is morbid. It’s not good for you. This is death, suicide, hate, pain.’
She smiled and nodded. ‘Pain is proof of life. There is nothing more true than life and death.’
That night he packed her a suitcase. They would get away from this house, it was a disease and it would devour her. They would leave tomorrow.
He had been gone only moments, only heartbeats, only thoughts. When he walked up the path the next morning he found their house was bleeding. Its window eyes crying red, its mouth door pouring red blood. The balloons were gently waving to him in the breeze. She had tied them to the door handle, the latch on an open window upstairs, the trees that framed her home, their life.
He walked to the front door, each step becoming heavier; he felt his chest being pressed in, as if he were underwater, the pressure reaching up to his skull, he was drowning. As he came up to the front door he noticed a message left in the window, smeared with a bony finger in the dust:
‘Im Sorry.’
‘It’s truth.’
‘This is morbid. It’s not good for you. This is death, suicide, hate, pain.’
She smiled and nodded. ‘Pain is proof of life. There is nothing more true than life and death.’
That night he packed her a suitcase. They would get away from this house, it was a disease and it would devour her. They would leave tomorrow.
He had been gone only moments, only heartbeats, only thoughts. When he walked up the path the next morning he found their house was bleeding. Its window eyes crying red, its mouth door pouring red blood. The balloons were gently waving to him in the breeze. She had tied them to the door handle, the latch on an open window upstairs, the trees that framed her home, their life.
He walked to the front door, each step becoming heavier; he felt his chest being pressed in, as if he were underwater, the pressure reaching up to his skull, he was drowning. As he came up to the front door he noticed a message left in the window, smeared with a bony finger in the dust:
‘Im Sorry.’
He placed his hand on her message, holding hands with her the only way he knew he could now. He took one of the balloons from the door handle, and noticed a piece of paper inside.
‘Ennui’
The paper was carefully cut from her dictionary. He glanced around at the hundreds of balloons and realized she had finally been able to translate her feelings. This was her life. She was made up of these words.
‘Ennui’
The paper was carefully cut from her dictionary. He glanced around at the hundreds of balloons and realized she had finally been able to translate her feelings. This was her life. She was made up of these words.
‘Dejection’ ‘Melancholy’ ‘Sadness’ ‘Bleeding’ ‘Destroyed’ ‘Pain’ ‘Burdened’
‘Disconsolate’ ‘Alone’ ‘Ripped’ ‘Darkness’
‘Hurt’ ‘Empty’ ‘Lost’ ‘Astray’ ‘Irrelevant’ ‘Invisible’
‘Misplaced’ ‘Wandering’ ‘Absent’ ‘Scared’ ‘Ripped’ ‘Darkness’
‘Broken’ ‘Incomplete’ ‘Tired’ ‘Enough’ ‘Abyss’ ‘Surreal’
‘Memory’ ‘Gone’ ‘Weak’ ‘Try’ ‘Waste’ ‘Numb’
‘Useless’ ‘Wary’ ‘Fragmented’ ‘Cursed’ ‘Silence’
‘Wrong’ ‘Struggle’ ‘Mirror’ ‘Cold’ ‘Uneasy’ ‘Weeping’
‘Useless’ ‘Wary’ ‘Fragmented’ ‘Cursed’ ‘Silence’
‘Wrong’ ‘Struggle’ ‘Mirror’ ‘Cold’ ‘Uneasy’ ‘Weeping’
‘Bleak’ ‘heartsick’ ‘rope’ ‘razor’ ‘murky’ ‘red’
He sat in a sea of deflated red balloons, scattered with pieces of her. He closed his eyes and realized; she never wanted saving.
‘Get me out of here.’
He knew now. He knew she hadn’t meant the bed, the room, the hospital, him.
He was the Doctor, she was the Dictionary, and that was truth.
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