A/N: If you find something that is written between brackets: (I don't want to go home.) It means its meant to be strikethrough. Its sort of like something the main character thought about but regretted it.
I don't know when I will be posting this story because as you can read, it will be somewhat of a delicate topic so it might take me a bit to write it. I'm posting it so you guys can see what I'm doing right now.
ALSO, trigger warning... there's a sexual assault scene, the main character's depressed and there's also use of drugs.
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Sometimes, I think there's something weird going on with me.
There's something in me that I don't understand no matter how many hours I spend trying to make sense of it all.
Sometimes, I get tired of myself and my own thoughts.
Some other times, I wish I could disappear.
Not dying, though, dying isn't precisely what I want. When you die, you create a hole in people's lives, your absence is felt every day, every hour, every minute— it's not that I think I'm that important, it's just that I know. I've felt it and I don't want my absence to be felt... but I want to be gone. I want to erase the memory of me from this world, from the minds of those who love me and have loved me, from those I've hurt and have hurt me.
Sometimes, I wonder how things would be if I wasn't here.
I try to think about Mami: who's going to take care of her on Saturday mornings when she comes back from her night shift, and she can barely get to her room, only to wake up four hours later to rush to her second job? Who's going to help her study to get through her college modules? My brother doesn't have the patience to help and he's busy with uni and work. Oh, Rowan... perhaps life would've been easier for Mami and Rowan if I had never existed.
Sometimes
I think
I think too much.
The first thing I do when I wake up from my nap is get my phone from my nightstand and open the four messages I've got from Rowan. He wants to know how I am, how I've been, what I've been doing.
I don't reply.
I put music on and drop my phone on my bedside.
I should be getting ready. It's almost 10 at night and I should be ready but I can't move. My body doesn't want to move.
It takes Rowan ten minutes to send me another text. You know it shows when you've read my messages right? Any plans for the night? How was school?
I reply with two laughing faces and a simple sorry; a short reply is better than no reply. I roll around in bed and come face to face with a worn-out poster of half-naked girls. I roll my eyes and turn to the other side of the room to find old Pokémon stickers mixed with Digimon, Dragon Ball and Captain Tsubasa stickers.
This was Rowan's room before he left for Uni. We live in a two-bedroom flat so I used to share a room with Mami because apparently, boys need their own space to grow into the men they're meant to be. After he left, I got to keep his room. I haven't gotten rid of his things yet even though he keeps telling me I can. Mami says I should try to make it look a little more like me and less like Rowan, but I'm afraid I don't know what 'a little more like me' would look like.
My phone starts ringing and I know it's Rowan because his ringtone is the Halloween theme song. I let it ring while I get up and head to the shower.
I make sure I scrub hard. Sometimes, when I get home from sixth form, I feel like I have layers and layers of dirt on me. It affects the way my mind and my body work, it slows me down.
I come out of the bathroom fully clothed, my phone's still ringing. This time, though, it's a different ring tone and I hurry to answer it.
"Connor?" I breathe out. I can hear voices and music in the background.
"Why aren't you here, where are you?" Connor's voice is harsh and yet, somehow soft. Like a caress on a bruise. "You should've told me if you wanted me to pick you up. Everybody's already here and some girls asked for you."
"No, no," I shake my head and sit on my bed. I look at the full-length mirror, would he like it if I wear this? It's nothing fancy, just ripped jeans and a t-shirt. My hair's still wet and I have no intention of doing anything to it. I'm sure he'll be disappointed, he likes it straightened. "I just— I took a nap after I got home. I'll be there in a bit, though."
"Sleepyhead." His laugh comes out natural and carefree as if there's nothing in the world that bothers or affects him. "Don't be lazy, and hurry. Give me a call when you're ready so I can get you an Uber."
I hum in response. After telling me that he loves me, he hangs up. I'm instantly hit with waves of overwhelming feelings that I can't begin to describe. All I know is that everything in me feels heavy, my body, my chest, my hair, my eyelids, everything feels heavy.
It's sadness.
I think.
But then again, I could just be bored.
It's a weird feeling. It weighs you down and makes your chest heavy with... something... something ugly and it makes me want to be sick.
I hate feeling like this. I hate it so much that I do what I can to avoid it.
I close the door, even though I know nobody's home. Mami's at work until at least 2 am. I reach under the desk and I can feel it, the little plastic bag I keep hidden.
There're only two pills left and for a moment I'm so anxious I feel like crying. Certain opioids aren't easily found and they aren't cheap either. It's not like I'm a drug addict or anything but co-codeine does nothing for me and from time to time, I need something to make everything hurt less.
I take one pill out the bag and reach for a trophy I got when I was 13 during sports day. It's heavy so it'll do the job. It has my name on it, written in big letters, Mia Saint-Cruz. They misspelt my last name and when I complained about it they said they couldn't rewrite the plaque. Santacruz, how difficult could that be?
I lay the pill on my English book and crush it with the trophy until it's nothing but powder. I grab my student ID from the mess in my desk and I draw my first line. Not too much, just enough.
The first time I put shit up my nose, it was unpleasant at first. The burning sensation lingered even after hours of having done it. I kept feeling like there was something up my nose. I don't like it but it hits quicker if you snort it. And once it hits? Nothing, absolutely nothing matters.
I draw another line with what's left of the powder and I snort it quickly, afraid someone might knock down my door and catch me.
I take my phone out and send a message to Connor. He reads it but doesn't reply so I guess I'll just wait for the Uber. Connor doesn't like my neighbourhood, nor does he like it when I take buses if it's dark out. He says there are lots of creepers out there. I wait for the Uber inside my building, covered by my jacket and with enough makeup on that no one can see my eye bags or the bruises on my neck. I wait and I wait until seven minutes later, a car pulls up and I get in.
The ride takes about forty minutes and as we go, I can see the change in the scenery. I've always liked coming down these ends. Kingston has the nicest houses in South London; they're huge and so beautiful.
When I first came to Connor's house, I'd daydreamed about what it would be like to live in a house like his, where the children get their own room and there are two parents, where the mum gets home at 6 pm and we all have dinner and lie about how our day went.
Connor is the 'perfect' son, the son who never does anything bad, never fights and always behaves. Behind his parents' backs, though, he never misses an opportunity to get pissed.
Connor likes to have his fun. He likes to think of himself as a grown man despite his 18 years of age and when he drinks, he drinks. Personally, I don't have a problem with it, do what you want with your body, it's yours... the problem with Connor is that he becomes a different person in that way men do when they've had one too many.
In a way, I sort of understand him. Parties are his way to let off some steam. His dad is very strict and he has Connor on a short leash.
It should be shorter but I'd never say that out loud.
When I get there, people are already drunk and I'm already high. While they're going crazy in their drunkenness, I'm levitating. My mind and my body aren't connected and while my body walks with a direction, my mind follows behind, floating and unbothered.
When I find Connor, he's screaming at the top of his lungs. He's singing but a different song than the one playing right now. There's a group of people around him and girls stare at him with lust, some guys too. I get it because Connor is the type of boy that's perhaps a little too perfect for our age.
He's like a sculpture. I used to imagine his dad moulding Connor in his image, solid and cold. It's stupid, I know, but even his hair looks perfectly made for him, a pretty shade of brown with a fade cut that he paid about 60 quid to get done.
Connor should be in a museum where he cannot move or talk, where his beauty can't be affected by the ruthlessness of his dark mind. He should be displayed among Greek Gods, the ones he loves so much. The ones that are worshipped despite their brutality. He'll fit perfectly there among the cruellest and most loved.
As I watch him, I can tell by the way he's struggling to stand that he's drunk so I just stand by and observe. He doesn't see me at first and I prefer it that way. I like watching him when he's not looking, when he's carefree and happy.
He looks different. He looks like the boy I fell in love with.
He laughs at something someone says. His eyes crinkle and his whole face lights up.
He has this... this sad, bad boy vibe that I once found very attractive. I think that's what brings the girls to him, the sad look in his eyes, his cheeky smile and his jaw, oh god... the jaw... no wonder he's so popular with the girls.
When the crowd around him calms, little by little people drift away and I watch while some girls flirt with him as if it isn't three of them and only one of him. As if they don't know of my existence.
They want to devour him.
And he entertains it. He flirts back and smirks at their comments. I see the glint of satisfaction in the girls' faces, the hope that maybe he will take one of them to a room, or perhaps all of them and he could do it if he wanted to, who would stop him? No one, not me. I have no right to.
Sometimes, I wonder why he's with me.
One of the girls says something and he laughs hard. She must've seen this as her green light because she leans in and tries to kiss him but Connor moves back. Shock and disgust on his face.
"What you think you're doing, you fucking slut." He pushes the girl away from him and grunts loud enough that the whole room can hear and then he leaves.
The girl's face quickly turns red and her eyes get watery within seconds. She moves back, trying to hide behind her friends. Suddenly, she looks younger and innocent, her skirt and her heels look like a custom, a little girl playing dress-up. She shouldn't be here, not in this house, not with these people.
I ignore the bitter taste in my mouth as I watch. A part of me wants to tell her that as girls, it doesn't matter what you wear or who you are, we should get used to those names. Tell her that Connor is an ass and that she should go home. But I know it won't look right if I do that because as it happens, you're apparently meant to take your boyfriend's side when a girl flirts with him so I make my way to him instead.
Connor's outside in the garden, a garden that pretty much looks like a small park. He's laughing with some boys I recognise but can't remember their names. He's enjoying himself as if he hadn't just fucked someone else's night.
As soon as he sees me, my anger diminishes. I wish my body wouldn't react this way. He smiles at me and spreads his arms wide for me to run to him. I walk slowly and I try to smile. Everybody's watching as they always do. There're always eyes, eyes, eyes everywhere, always watching what we do, how we do it, how his voice sounds or how wide my smile is.
I wish they'd just fuck off.
When I hug him, I'm overwhelmed by the smell of sweat and alcohol mixed with his own smell, I know it's stupid but I've come to associate his smell with something that could be heaven and hell mixed together in a bottle of expensive cologne.
He wraps his arms around me a little too tight. He's playing but it hurts and he doesn't realise until he lets go. His hands are on my waist as he pulls away from me. My eyes meet his and a cold shiver goes through my whole body. Connor's eyes are bright green. When I was about 14, I used to imagine I'd be with Connor forever and our kids would look like him, with his eyes.
Now green makes me sick.
"I'm sorry." He pouts. "I'm a little... what was the word? Euphoric?"
"I think you mean drunk."
His smile turns into something childish, almost innocent-like. "I love you," he whispers. He always loves me the most when he's drunk just like I hate him the least when I'm high.
"Aren't you cold?"
"A little." He laughs in my face and the smell of alcohol in his breath makes me look away. "I left my jacket in Oscar's room."
"I'll go find it before you catch a cold."
"You're so good to me, Mia." He kisses the top of my head and I take that as my cue to go.
I've been to Oscar's house many times before so I know my way around. The house is huge and nicely decorated. It screams white in a sophisticated way, I can hear his mother's posh accent in every corner of the house and I feel her condescending glare as I walk up the stairs and step on their white carpet with my dirty shoes.
The house has three floors, the last one is where Oscar's room is, the biggest one. It used to be an attic but his parents turned it into a room for him. How nice must it be to ask and receive just like that.
In his room, he has enough space that he can fit his own personal gym. He has one of those lifting weight machines and a bunch of weights that I honestly don't think he uses yet his room always smells like sweat and dirty clothes... mixed with a little bit of weed.
Oscar's bed is unmade. His closet's door is open, vomiting a chaos of clothes. His shoes are under his bed and there's another pile of clothes on the chair by his desk. By his bed, there's a McDonald's bag and inside, a bag from Burger King. Midnight deliveries, I guess.
I find Connor's jacket hung behind the door. It's a bomber jacket I got him for his birthday. I saved up £110 to get him this stupid jacket. At least he wears it, though.
I pick the pockets and find his wallet. He always leaves it around, one of these days someone might steal it... I find two pictures when I open it. One of me and the other of his mother. His biological mother because according to him, the woman that came into his life when he was 10 and raised him, his sister's mother, isn't his mother.
I take £40 out of Connor's wallet and leave £70, he's so drunk, he probably won't even notice.
☾
And he doesn't.
He walks around the whole night, dragging me with him. When it starts to rain, he refuses to go back inside and drags me to a bench at the far end of the garden. He leads my body towards him so I'm straddling him. It doesn't take long before we're making out and his hands start wandering about. And I hate that I like it. I hate that my body reacts to his touch without consulting with my brain. It doesn't take long before my hands start to wander too.
"We can go to Oscar's room," he says between breaths, his lips on my neck.
"Not Oscar's room."
He laughs, knowing fully well Oscar's room is a shithole and I wouldn't lie on that bed even if I got paid for it.
"Okay, well." He moves back, I can see how much he wants me in his eyes. I can feel it. "His parent's room? I'll go first and then you can come in?"
Even though it's a question, there isn't any room for rejection, so I nod and get off him. Connor walks away with hurry and anticipation and all I can think about is that I'm not high enough to get through the next few minutes.
Anxiety rises in my chest and my throat closes. I grab my phone and dial the one number I know I can always count on and when he answers I can hear loud music in the background, the same song that's coming from the house.
"Meet me in the garden?" I ask, he hangs up but I know he'll come. He always does.
A second later, Marcin walking through the French door with a knowing smirk on his face, almost as if he knew I was going to come to him at some point. His face is shiny with sweat and his shirt, a white Gucci shirt, has a purple stain on it.
"Saint Cruz." His voice is loud, too loud for my liking and the way he walks too slow. "Can't live without me, can you?"
"I got 20."
"Does he know you use his money to buy shit?" Marcin stands in front of me, his eyes red.
"It's money, what do you care where I get it from?"
"True that." He reaches for the zipper of his bumbag and takes out a little bag with a few pills. "I put one extra, just for you."
I give him the money and grab what's mine.
"So, when you gonna let me take you out?" Marcin asks.
"I have a boyfriend, you do know that, right?" I frown and try to walk away but Marcin doesn't let me. His hand is wrapped around my wrist.
"It's not like you care too much about him, though. I just wanna have a drink with you."
Marcin stares straight into my eyes. His smirk is long gone. I think his grip's going to leave a mark. "I'm the only one who's gonna get you the drugs you want. I cut them how you like. I'm always available. Come on, it's just a fucking drink."
"I pay you for these." I shake the bag of pills in his face. I try to get away from him but the more I move, the tighter his grip becomes.
"You a dead ting, anyways," he spits and shoves me aside. Marcin walks away, leaving me behind to rub my arm.
What is it with men? They provide you with a service that you're paying for, you're somewhat nice to them and that's enough for them to believe they're entitled to getting their dick sucked.
I make my way to the closest toilet, ignoring people as I go. It's not that I'm rude, it's just I don't have time to pretend to like them.
I lock myself in the bathroom and take a white pill out, I grab the first thing I find that's heavy enough to crush it and I'm desperate. I sniff and I sniff and I wait until I'm so high I can touch the clouds.
My head feels heavy, but Connor's waiting for me and I don't know how long it takes me to get to the room. I can barely feel his lips against my skin. My arms are lifted when he takes my t-shirt off.
He's hungry. His hands are hungry and he has no patience. He throws me to the bed and pulls my jeans off.
He looks so different now, in the dark. His eyes shine differently, like something out of this world. In the dark, it always feels different. He rips his skin open and shreds the Connor that everybody knows. He becomes an ugly thing that only I know, raw and coarse and cruel.
His hand finds its way around my neck, his body is heavy and it hurts when he moves. He could crush me and I don't fight it, I don't have the energy to.
I never do.
I don't remember when he exactly finishes but I do remember his moans, his breathing against my ear, his hot breath hitting my skin, his saliva burning my skin when he kissed my neck. His hands wrapped around my wrists— I can feel them still, even when he's no longer on top of me but beside me with a dumb smile on his face as he comes down from it, half-drunk, half asleep.
"I have to go home," I say. He hums in response but I don't think he's listening and I don't care. I get dressed and I get out.
The music is loud, people are bumping into me and I want to get away from them, I don't want them to see me. I don't want them to touch me so I walk out and I walk and I walk until my feet are numb and I can't walk anymore and all I want is to erase their touches, their voices, their laughter.
I'm not a good person. Not like Connor is. Ask anyone and they'll tell you just how good he is. I don't deserve him, he's too good for me. That's what everybody says and I wonder if it's true.
But they don't know Connor. They don't know him like I do.
I grab my phone and I open my messages, the archived ones. Still up for tonight? I type and five minutes later, I'm on my way to Central London to meet someone I've never met before at a bar I've never been to before and when I meet her, she looks exactly like her pictures.
Her hair's a little longer than I expected and although in pictures she looks blonde, her hair is actually light brown. I like how she does her hair, beach hair... I've always wanted it that way but my hair's too curly, thick, too frizzy.
She has the most perfect bone structure I've ever seen, her cheeks, her eyebrow bone, her nose... I'm stuck between wanting to be like her and wanting to be with her. Her eyes are pretty shade of light brown, almost honey-like and they take me in with excitement.
I like her eyes, she has cat eyes and I laugh to myself because I always thought that description was stupid but now that she's right in front of me, centimetres away, I can see why the expression exists.
I can tell she isn't shy; when she greets me, she kisses me a little too close to my lips. It's fine, anyway, we both know what we want from the other so she doesn't misunderstand when I tell her I want to leave and she doesn't hesitate to tell me she also wants to leave.
She says she lives close by, a ten-minute walk during which she tells me she's studying psychology at uni. She tells me she had a girlfriend called Alysa but Alysa was unfaithful so she doesn't think she wants to get back into the whole serious relationship thing just yet. She tells me she isn't from here but she came when she was young. As she goes on, she keeps giving me all these random facts about her and I'm thankful I'm still high because she talks too much and for someone that claims not to want to do the whole relationship thing, she's unknowingly trying to make a connection, something that she won't find with me.
When we finally make it to her building, I pray that we get to her room fast so I can finally shut her up but I don't need to because as soon as we step inside the lift, she's suddenly quiet. She's not as confident as she was before and it's up to me to take the lead. I like taking the lead.
I follow after her until we get to room 303 and I kiss her. I kiss her how Connor used to kiss me.
She kisses back but her body feels rigid when I place my hands on her hips, bringing her a little closer to me. She doesn't react much and I think I'm going to have to go, she probably changed her mind and wants to talk some more and that's not what I want, so I stop kissing her.
Do you want me to leave? I want to ask but before I get a chance, she kisses me back and it seems to be a whole different person. Her hands go up and down my body, and when we get to her bed, she holds me as if I was something fragile, something that needs to be touched with care or it might vanish or break. For a moment I want to tell her to not be so soft with me, I don't like it, there's no point... there's nothing in me that she can break, nothing that hasn't already been broken, anyway but to talk I'd have to stop kissing her and I can't.
I don't want to.
She takes her time undressing me. She touches every single part of me, kisses me like she's known me for longer than a couple of hours— I'm almost fooled into believing she cares about me. She holds my hands while she stares into my eyes and I don't know why but something in me switches and I give in. I let her do whatever she wants with me.
She's washing away the bad in me with her lips, she's caressing the purple and yellow bruises she probably can't see in the dark and although it hurts, I'm not bothered because I've grown to like the pain.
She's washing me clean and I'm leaving the toxicity here, in her bed, in her room, in her life and she doesn't even know it.
When we're done, I stay in bed with her for a little while and for a moment I feel as though I'm not me. I'm some other girl who can enjoy the company of others without thinking about the bad that will come the next day.
(I don't want to go home.) I should go home. I have to go home but she's rubbing circles on my back with her nails and I'm so tired, I'm so so fucking tired. I keep trying to fight with sleep but it wins and the last thing I see are her eyes and her smirk as she watches me pass out.
☾
My body feels sore.
Anxiety rushes through my veins as I look around the room. My heart's beating its way out of my chest and although I try to stay calm, I keep gasping for air, finding it harder and harder to breathe.
"Are you okay?" Her sleepy voice startles me. For a moment, I forget where I am, why I am here, who she is and even though I had fun, although I felt good with her, I tell her I have to go.
She gets out of bed when I do and turns on her bedside lamp. It takes a few seconds to light up and even then, the room is dim, she should probably get a new lamp.
"You need a new lamp." I joke, avoiding her question.
I find my underwear and I put it on while she sits on her bed and puts on an oversize t-shirt.
"Are you okay?"
I nod as I get dressed. "Yeah, I just— I gotta go, that's all, I'm sorry."
I almost feel bad because she asks me to text her sometime so we can "meet up and stuff" but I don't even remember her name and before I met her at the bar, I deleted her number.
That's the deal we had, Connor and I, we're allowed to do this but never with the same girl, never more than once and never with someone that we know.