Who the Fuck is Alex Turner?

The Part With the Truth

 I didn’t sleep that night. The thunderstorm encircled our house like it was waging war on us, banging at the windows and spitting at the walls. A little like the storms in my mind, ripping and slashing at every morsel of sense I attempted to focus on. I’d think, maybe Noel was wrong? But then the paranoia, the storms, would come and wind me up and slap the ray of hope out of my system. I’d stare out to the inky black sky and wish I could fade away into it. I was jealous of the stars, of their ability to disappear with the sun’s return.

I crept into the bathroom, slinking over the cold white tiles and pinching the door shut silently. With the light flashing on, I saw my reflection. My right cheekbone was plump and swollen. An intriguingly coloured bruise had formed on my brow, under my eye and on my cheekbone. It reminded me of stained purple, or blue ink, with mustardy yellow patches, like a murky cloud. I had a black eye too. My makeup had deformed into blurs of charcoal markings around my bloodshot eyes.

I looked at girl in the mirror angrily. Why you? Why are you so weak? How did you let a fling do this to you? I glared at her, and saw her eyebrows jam together and lips turn up in a scowl. Her long golden brown hair was in knots, hanging in ugly clusters around her thin, frail neck. Her white singlet hung off her hunched shoulders as she leaned with her hands gripping the edge of the sink. Her knuckles had gone white, and began to shake. Her eyes stared back into mine, with black intensity. They were like his- deep, dark, lingering.

Turning on the tap, I cupped my hands together under it waiting for the crystal clear trickle of refreshing water. Throwing it onto my face it sent a jolt to liven me up. I started to hack away at my teeth with my toothbrush, slathered with toothpaste, but as the taste exploded in my mouth, the minty sensation flung memories of Alex- his aromatic hair, lying on him, giggling, just him- back into the forefront of my mind. I spat it out, washing my mouth and throwing my toothbrush into the basin.

Lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, I felt restless yet utterly exhausted. I couldn’t stay here, but I doubted I could stay put anywhere. I found my phone, after having thrown it. It’d left a small chip in the wall, and as I picked it up I saw a thin crack running down its screen. I felt guilty, regretting my irrational behaviour. It was still working but somebody had switched it to its silent mode whilst I was unconscious. I flicked through my call log. There were 6 missed calls from Alex, including one that I’d missed only a few minutes ago. I checked the time, and it read 2:01 am. Why was he awake so early? And why was he calling?

The screen glowed back at me with the red letters Alex flashing from his missed call. I didn’t move my eyes away from the screen, which illuminated my pitch-black room. What was that urge, the instinct even, to hear his voice again? That slow, smooth, baritone, British voice.

My heart nearly jumped out of my chest as I felt the phone vibrating furiously in my hand. It was Alex. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to answer so badly, to beg him to say it wasn’t true. But I felt sickened and frightened at the sight of his name.

Impulsively, I answered it, swinging the receiver up to my ear.

“Hello?” It was him. His voice. Almost yelling in a panic.

My throat locked and I only listened. I couldn’t muster the strength to say anything. I was still in shock hearing his voice again.

“Nicola? Are you there? Are you hurt? Please talk to me-” He was pleading, but I couldn’t take anymore. I hung up, the tears returning to my eyes and blurring my vision. I blinked them away, sending them rolling down my cheek.

It rung again.

This time I picked up, but I didn’t hesitate.

“Don’t call me again. Just leave me alone! You…you monster!” I cried, the anguish resonating in my hoarse voice. I hung up again, fumbling with the phone as my hands shook.