i didn't edit stab me and leave me to die in the streets
"Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways." - Sigmund Freud
Mrs. Holmes had a head full of dusty grey curls. She had a kind, trustworthy face, stuffed cheeks, and a big bosom. Her coin-grey eyes assessed me carefully and she constantly twiddled the silver band around her finger. I assumed she had marriage problems. She asked me how I was feeling currently and I responded with a shrug and now there was a long boat of silence ahead of us.
It was starting to get uncomfortable.
"Be honest." She finally said.
"I'm good."
"I can't help you if you won't help yourself."
"You don't need to help me. We can sit here in silence for the full hour and you'll still get paid. I can keep your secret."
"Do you keep a lot of secrets?"
"Mm."
"Was that a yes or a no?"
"That was a grunt."
"OK." She scribbled on a sheet of paper.
I glanced around the room. It was a classroom except there were no desks and only a couple of chairs. The walls were bare and the light above was a dull yellow. Outside, the skies were a darkening depressing-blue. No doubt it was going to rain. Mrs. Holmes sat opposite me. She crossed one leg over the other and smiled. "Would you like to know what I wrote?"
"I'm sure I can live without knowing."
"I wrote 'uses sarcasm as a defence mechanism.'"
"I fucked a man I didn't like yesterday. Is that a defence mechanism? He was older than me. I guess that's 'daddy issues.' I've already fucked his friend. You could say I'm a whore. We're probably going to fuck again except this time we'll like each other a little more and sooner or later we'll get jealous and angry and hateful and it'll all be disguised as passion and our kids will hate us and end up drowned in the pool out in our shitty back-garden. And that'll be our life. Is there a word for that? Thinking ahead. Fabricating an entire future with a man you don't like or maybe like. Stupidity? Or maybe love? Love is an ugly word. But I can't find another to replace it..." I should've said more but her face turned sympathetic and my resentful words turned silent and affronted.
She pitied me. I fucking hated her.
"Is that what you think of yourself?"
"I don't know. You tell me." I said, tired of her prodding and poking questions. Questions I couldn't answer without getting upset and furious over. I wanted to leave already.
"We've barely met."
"Are you backing out? Is that what you do every night when your husband comes home late, stinking of liquor and perfume that isn't yours and yells at you to leave him alone and stop asking questions because he's told you, time and time again, he was with his friends and not with a slut who's barely twenty. Is that it?"
"My partner is a woman. Her name is Gill. She's lovely."
"Lovely is a word you'd use to describe a dull personality. Someone who can't hold a conversation, who sucks in bed and wakes early on weekends to go running." Despite not wanting to spill to her like she was my diary, I sure managed to speak a lot.
She set down the papers on the floor and set her hands on her knees. "You're confused and you're hurt. You lash out and then immediately regret it. You structure your face. Place and set parts of your body in certain places and positions to pretend to be relaxed and unbothered. But there are breaks and then there's this raging fury and hatefulness and then helplessness in your eyes."
"That's bullshit. I'm not an emo from Tumblr."
She laughed. "I'm merely reading your body language. Tell me about this man. Is he your boyfriend?"
"No. He's just someone I know. A friend of a friend."
"Are you using sex as a means to escape?"
"No," I rubbed the back of my neck in aggravation. "Can I go now?"
"We have half an hour left. I hope you're using protection."
"Quit that. You're not my mother." I snapped irritably.
"I heard your mother..."
"Yeah. Shot dead. This was years ago."
"Do you miss her?"
"I barely remember her."
"Why is that? You were eight."
"You've done your homework." She waited so I said. "I can remember what she looks like and her laugh. She was nice. She... Forget it. I don't want to talk about her."
"Alright. Tell me about your father."
"He killed-"
"No. I want to know about the father you knew. Not the one in the news."
"He wasn't a good man. He didn't raise us like he should've. Everything was about control to him. Living with him was suffocating which was why I wasn't upset when he first vanished. I loved it actually. I tried at first, to miss him but it felt fake, forced. But I kept up appearances because there was always this fear he'd come back and then it'd be back under that roof. There was always tension and hostility. Just unfriendliness. He loves us, but because we're his kids and that's it. There was never time for a talk or a trip to the cinema. It was arguments and him slamming his fist down. I ... I wish he was a good father. Why did it have to be us? Why - fuck it. Forget it. I don't want your understanding smile and I'm not about to feel sorry for myself. Shit happens. He's a son of a bitch. I'm over it." I wiped my nose, sitting up straighter and stared at Mrs. Holmes straight in the eyes. She wanted me to cry but there was no way I'd ever weep like a little bitch.
That just wasn't who I was.
**
Friday passed uneventfully.
Now: Early morning Saturday. I sat in my underwear and watched a conspiracy documentary about Area 51 and aliens. I ate cold pizza and walked amongst piles of dirty clothes. I don't know how the flat got grimy so quickly considering I had cleaned the day before.
By 11:03 a.m., I managed to get drunk. There were two moods to drunk me: the delighted Shay who saw everything through a kaleidoscope, who'd dance to Coldplay in her lucky underwear and then there was lifeless Shay who realised she hated Coldplay and who was drunk by herself in her colourless underwear.
I unplugged the radio.
The ceiling fan lazily spun. I gazed up at it, indulging in my wickedest thoughts. Suicide was becoming a favourite pastime of mine. A selfish four and a half minutes of believing death was mine to claim, and mine alone. I'd climb on to the chair and pull the rope around my neck, tighten it, and kick the chair away. For the first few moments, I'd panic and struggle, turning shades of bursting red and bruised purple and my body would flail and thrash, a last attempt at saving my own life and then -
The doorbell rang.
I didn't acknowledge it at first. I was at my own funeral: a ghost watching the sombre faces and awkward condolences and long-forgotten friends carrying the coffin forwards ...
Again, the doorbell chimed.
I finally got up.
*
Trevor stood on the doorstep. He was about to walk in when he noticed what I was wearing and he looked away. He wasn't embarrassed, just simply respecting space and boundaries-which was unusual for him. He touched and strayed and was like an annoying pesky fly that wouldn't leave until you tried swatting it. I guess his Achilles' heel was blood, derived by lust and not the human body. "I'm hungry. Let's go eat."
"Sure. Let me go grab my coat."
A car pulled up. Walker pulled her long legs out, straightening up, mouth full of harsh smoke, cigarette limp in the corner of her mouth. Burnham followed, neat tie, dazzling smile, victorious gaze. "It's too cold to only wear underwear or is he a special case?"
"Sod off."
"Can't, kid. We gotta talk. Grab some clothes, pour some coffee, this will take some time."
Trevor ran.
I clicked my tongue cantankerously. "Make your own coffee."
*
The sofa was shabby and red. Worn like an old cardigan with patches that didn't match. Too many people sat on it, I was focussed on two in particular. A woman - Art, she said, her parents were hippies who spent most of her childhood naked - and Cole. They were making out. I was slightly pissed and drunk.
Trevor was exaggerating his hand movements. "He looks like a cult leader. I don't like him. His beard is frowzy and his eyes are dishonest. Human flesh tastes like salty pork. His would likely taste like burnt charcoal-"
"Trevor, for God sake, you're talking about Shia LeBeouf." I interrupted grouchily. Art was a beautiful woman, no doubt. She was tattooed and her black pixie cut was cute. I wasn't jealous of her. I was glaring because Cole was avoiding me and I hadn't done anything to justify that. He glanced at me once when I came in with Trevor and Beef (a live-by-the-principle man, terrifying-looking: tattoos on his neck, giant build, but decent, respectable) and didn't once greet me.
"Well, what do you think his flesh taste like?" Trevor shot condescendingly.
My forehead throbbed. Trevor's parents must've dropped him on the head as a child for shits and giggles every goddamn day. "Fuck me if I know, Trevor," I said and took my beer bottle and walked into the kitchen area.
There was a heavy stench of tobacco and four men talking lowly. A gaunt-faced skeleton sat on a stool. His skin looked like it was plastered to the bone like a wet t-shirt. His blonde hair was dry and bore a resemblance to soiled straw. Charlie. His dull blue eyes met mine. He didn't look away, stared hard, sucked in his lip and burlesqued. "Look who it is, the storyteller."
"You should leave," suggested Dorito.
"I don't think so-"
"Shay," James started. "I hope you didn't come here to squabble."
"It's attention. She's deprived of it," Charlie blew smoke in my face, leering. "Ain't that right, sweetheart? You gotta be centre of attention even if that means vomiting shit. How'd your fifteen minutes of fame go?"
"You talked of forcing yourself onto women if they rejected your advances or if they were skimpily dressed. That is rape. It is unwanted. It is an assault. You have no right to a woman's body or anyone's body for that matter. It's unfortunate you're more afraid of the label than you are of your own actions, Charlie."
"It's your word against his," the forth man in the room spoke up, he was white, gold ring in his ear, nothing stood out from his looks. A plain Tom-if there's such a thing.
"Dorito could tell the truth except Charlie's cóck is so far down his throat, all anyone can hear is grunts."
"Jesus. Kid's got a wicked tongue on her. In my day you wouldn't catch anyone disrespecting their elders like that," the fourth man stood up, slapped Charlie on the back of his neck. "Up you get, son. We'll leave the lady alone, and finish the smoke in the garden."
They ambled out into the garden. James and I were left. He looked at me and I looked back at him and hesitated. "I should probably tell you...uh, those two detectives came and visited me earlier today at the flat. I don't know why but they were asking me about Andrew. Yeah, I was surprised, too. I thought it was going to be more questions about Dad."
"What exactly did they say?"
"Whether I knew him or not. When I said I didn't, they said they had surveillance footage of Andrew sniffing around the flat. Took a chance, called a bluff and their faces crumpled up like they'd sucked on a lemon. They left soon after."
"That's worrying."
"Yeah. Fuck. I don't want to go to jail for his murder. I didn't even kill him. I'm young and cute. Old ladies with jacked up teeth will be fighting over me. I can't be anyone's bitch."
"Have you told Cole?"
"No, he doesn't want to know me so ...whatever. He's a dick."
"Keep calm. Don't do anything stupid. Don't say anything to anyone. I'm sure everything will be OK."
"I hope so, James," I worried, "if not, I'll be forced to give sexual favours to prison guards to afford tampons and if that happens, I'm going to bring everyone down with me."
**
Midnight. Someone hammered on the front door. I don't know what was more annoying, the constant banging or the fact people forgot there was a door bell. I walked down the stairs, drying my hands on a hand towel and opening the door.
Cole barged in, wet from the rain. "What took you so long?"
"I was on the toilet."
He harrumphed like he didn't believe me and headed into the kitchen. He rummaged about noisily in the fridge and then yelled at me to join him. He slid a glass of whiskey along the counter towards me. I held out my hand to stop it from flying off but didn't drink up like he ordered. "What happened to ignoring me?"
"Don't be stupid," he grimaced and set his glass down. "I wasn't ignoring you. I've simply been busy."
"Is that so? Well, I've got work to do," I pushed the glass back towards him with a forced smile. "I'll leave you to it."
"You're being ridiculous. Just because we fucked doesn't mean we're together. Clinginess is unattractive and desperate."
"Wow. OK. I tried talking to you once since we got together and you've ignored me. I don't recall bombarding you with weepy texts and long voicemail messages. Whatever you think this is is all in your head."
"Where are you going?"
I stopped in the doorway and shook my head in disbelief. "If I stay a minute longer, you'll believe I'll be wanting your children."
"Then what do you want?"
I lingered on the spot, thought hard and then spun on my heel to face him. "I don't want to be your girlfriend. I'm not going to form an emotional attachment towards you just because you pitied fucked me-"
"I didn't-"
"Then stop acting like you did! I'm not some precious china doll you forgot to wrap up in bubble wrap. And I'm not delusional enough to believe that I should start planning Sundays to go on a countryside walk and fucking what colours to paint a nursery. We can fuck in the night and go back to being friends in the daytime - as cheesy as that sounds."
He waited until I exhaled angrily before saying. "Are you done?"
"Yes," my eyelids drooped, fell to the glass and I looked away. "I don't want to drink. Being an alcoholic isn't on my to-do list."
He took my glass. "Alright. James told me about the detectives. Give me a few days, I'll arrange a new place for you to stay."
"Right. Cool." I sat down again, crossed my legs. "When is Daniel coming back?"
"Tomorrow." His hand lightly trailed along my leg. Our eyes downcast, and then raised. I wondered what was wrong with us, drawn to each other even in moments where we were tired or when we were angry and confused about feelings that only surfaced in the dead of the night, when we were tipsy on cheap beer and sober on the bleakness of reality, perhaps I was being senseless, maybe we didn't like each other in the way we wanted, but maybe that's just it. Our problems become infinitesimal when we're fucking each other, it's the filthy deed, the glorious obscenity that is two naked bodies. Crumpled clothes on the cold tiles, quiet hum of the fridge, soft moans, shaky breaths, the unanswered questions, the lost train of thought...
That is art, I suppose.
***
shay is so fake deep lmaoooo she's losing the plot well she lost it a while ago but im trying to show her thoughts becoming more and more disorientated as the days go on anywho
What do you want to see happening in the next chapter ............?
i might actually write it.