Henrietta Armitage Doesn’t Read Anymore

Henrietta was light-headed. The old man slouching across from her had a sardine sandwich, so the waiting room reeked. Henrietta’s octopus enjoyed the stink, but she herself was nauseous. That’s why she was there: the dizziness, the hot bile, the drool.

She turned to the girl beside her, green fringe poking from her pilling hoodie. Whispered: ‘Who eats in a doctor’s surgery?’

‘Huh?’ Pulled one earphone out.

The old man was looking at her now. Tongue moistening his lips. Sauce on his bone-coloured shirt.

‘Never mind.’

Henrietta busied herself with her phone. The octopus liked a story about Greek whitebait.

‘Henrietta Armitage?’ The doctor was small and neat, wearing a buttoned-up dress decorated with smiling seals. The octopus did not like this. ‘Come through, Henrietta.’

* * *

The doctor’s surgery had framed certificates on the wall, next to photos of children and mountain peaks. A physician. A parent. And a hiker. You wouldn’t find her feeling faint and retching on the commute.

‘Henrietta. That’s an interesting name.’

‘My parents were nerds.’

‘I love it,’ she said with enthusiasm. Then, perhaps because the enthusiasm was too much: ‘My name’s so boring. Samantha. Sam. Sammy. I always wanted an exotic name.’

‘I always wanted to take the bus without vomiting,’ Henrietta said with a laugh, then realised it came out awkwardly.

‘Right then.’ No smile now. The doctor leaned away from her. ‘Is that why you’re here today? Persistent nausea?’

‘Yeah. Mostly on the way to work, but then I don’t really go anywhere else. Except here.’

‘What do you do, Henrietta?’

‘I work in a bookshop.’

‘Heaven.’

‘Not really. It’s mostly talking to customers and lifting boxes. Or standing at the till, looking busy.’

‘But you get all the best books first.’

‘I don’t read any more.’ The octopus played with the doctor’s ballpoint.

The doctor took her pen back and made notes, tongue in the corner of her mouth. ‘This nausea. Do you think it might be that octopus in your skull?’

Henrietta laughed.

The doctor laughed too, but only politely. ‘I’m serious, though. I can see the tentacles coming out of your mouth and nose. That might be making you sick.’

Henrietta’s mouth widened. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The doctor took down a thick book from her shelf. Flipped through, humming. Then pointed to a diagram: ‘If your octopus is pressing on here or here, that could certainly be causing your sickness.’

Henrietta brushed a tentacle away and rubbed her eyes. ‘Doctor, it’s not a real octopus. It’s a metaphor. You can’t get sick from a metaphor.’

‘And yet,’ the doctor said. ‘Here you both are.’

She shouldn’t have come here. She should’ve stayed safe, behind closed doors and blinds. She should’ve—

‘Enjoy your books,’ the doctor said, handing her a light blue prescription slip.

The octopus tugged at the door handle.

* * *

The bus trip over the bridge was always the worst part. Henrietta started to salivate, but not from hunger. Things began to turn. And faster.

The octopus began singing.

There was no getting off now. The next stop was across the river.

Henrietta breathed to stop the faintness. Thick rose perfume. Dim-sims. Wet shorts. Air in, air out. A tentacle slid along the window.

She looked away from the water, but it was no good. The octopus knew it was there. And the octopus wanted nothing more than to dive in; to cool its blue blood in the deep, then crawl under sharp rocks. 

‘You okay?’ The woman next to her wore large sunglasses and a mask with daffodils on it. Her voice was phlegmy.

‘Fine, thanks. Fine.’

The octopus put all its tentacles to the glass. Rattled the pane. Harmonised with itself, the notes low.

Henrietta licked the window. What a promise it was: of all things quiet and calm and cold. The joy of leaping and falling and giving up the glare; of thin cracks and deep sand and never having to be witnessed as anything other than a dark shape among dark shapes.

‘I’ve got some pills that’d sort you out.’ The woman took a plastic container from her bag and shook it.

The octopus threw it to the floor.

The woman made a shocked face to the other passengers. ‘The fuck’s wrong with you?’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Henrietta panted. ‘It’s my metaphor.’

Red light. The container rolled to the front of the bus.

Green light. The container rolled back. The woman snatched it up. ‘Fucked in the head.’

The octopus pulled at Henrietta’s eyes, showing her the waves. And below the waves. The thrill of the anonymous gloom. The heavy, holding water. The gentle currents.

‘Yes,’ Henrietta said to the deep, swallowing her spit. ‘Yes.’ Then stood up.

The woman pulled down her mask: ‘Driver! Driver!’

Crescendo. The octopus’s abdomen pulsed, shuddered.

Henrietta reached for the door.

‘Next stop,’ the driver said. ‘Next stop.’

The doors opened to the bright, dry world.

* * *

The octopus felt stiff now, like its organs were attached to ligaments, and these ligaments to bones. 

The biped kept it fed with delivered food. And her room was comfortably dim: the blinds always closed, the lights dimmed. 

But the octopus needed more: colder, darker, deeper days. It trailed a tentacle along the window’s condensation, then let it drip to its beak.

Her phone buzzed. The biped stirred. ‘Yeah?’

‘We need you at the shop today, babe.’

The bridge. The drop. The water, pressing, pressing, pressing.

‘I’m sick.’ The biped stared at a crumpled square of light blue paper.

‘Everyone’s sick.’

The biped’s finger moved over the red button. The octopus slapped at her hand.

‘I’m sorry. I just can’t. Maybe next week.’

‘You can come in today, babe. Or not at all.’

The biped rubbed her eyes. ‘Isn’t there some magical third thing?’

‘Magical third things are only in books, babe.’

‘I don’t read any more.’

‘Yeah, me neither. I’ll drop over the keys.’

The biped’s face became wet, the octopus sipped.

* * *

Ⓒ Damon Young