A year earlier I am asking Sarah for her phone number, my ear close to her lips so I can hear it right, under the noise of the house party we are stood in the middle of. That awful repetitive dance music.
Sarah smiles against the sun, in a park. She looks so happy. I press down on the shutter and time freezes as light shines through the lens and captures a moment forever. Seconds later I put the camera down and we kiss.
Sarah is smiling in a photo. She looks so sad to me.
Time unfreezes and once again the forward momentum, which cannot be resisted, carries me towards her. I am on a freight train, headed for the love of my life.
7.6
I lunge forward to grab her, to hold her still.
Just as she reaches the door a wave of guilt flows through me. I can’t let her leave through that door again. Deja vu is not part of my language. I have to stop her.
My arms reach out, aiming for vice like grips on her shoulders, but she spins to face me.
Fear shakes her blue eyes as her eyelids are snapped wide open.
The spin unleashes a whoosh of her black hair.
The knife she is holding sinks into my stomach. I feel a tear through my skin, through my abdominal muscles and deeper still.
I freeze, and then in slow motion I look down half expecting to see Jack Daniels whiskey pouring from an open wound.
Instead I see blood, a thick splurge of blood seeping out along the glistening blade and over Sarah’s trembling hands tightened around the handle.
She lets go as the blood covers her soft skin and stumbles back against the front door. I pull the knife from my stomach and drop it to the ground. It clangs on the wooden floor but to me sounds like an atom bomb exploding. It deafens me and sends a ripple through my body, which jolts.
I feel dizzy. Not drunk dizzy, there is no steadying this.
I fall forward onto her and we slip into a forced embrace.
Bittersweet.
I begin to cry, finally releasing two and half years of denial and grief. I bury my nose into the softness of her neck. Her black hair cushions my chin and dries my cheeks of the stinging tears that are streaming down my face.
She cries too, and holds me closer.
‘I’m sorry. I still love you,’ I whisper into her ear.
I then let go and slide down, collapsing onto my back, looking up at the white ceiling. The lights are back on. How? The glare of the spotlights are like a thousand suns shining down upon me, multiplying with each second that ticks and each breath of mine which shortens and slows down even more than the last.
I am dying. I know this.
Sarah knows this too. She drops to her knees by my side and leans over me. Her soft, bloodstained hand caresses my forehead, like a mother soothing her scared child.
But I don’t feel scared. I feel relieved; I am being freed from the guilt, freed from the addiction, and released from myself.
And it is in this moment that I understand. I get it now. It all makes sense.
Our lives are so full of everything else but this. And it is only this that matters.
I hear Sarah start to sob. I feel a tear splash against my dry lips.
I let go.
MELISSA
‘Now remember darling, you've come so far and this position is your just rewards. I'm so proud of you Melissa, and you look so grown up.’
1.1
Those were her last words, followed by a kiss on each cheek before she waved me onto the train, pulling out a crumpled up used tissue to wipe away yet more tears. Mother is always a little over dramatic, but she is right, this is a big step for me.
And I am now walking alone.
Natasha, a friendly enough estate agent struggles to open the door with the set of keys that will soon be mine. This has probably been the easiest let she's completed; no prior visits, no questions. The door is proving a little trickier.
I had phoned two weeks prior to the move, stated my interest in the apartment and arranged the deposit to be wired from my bank account immediately. The less interaction the better. A conversation would only have given me a chance to back out.
Natasha finally turns the key correctly, two twists to the right, and the door swings open. We walk in and Natasha waltzes ahead of me while I heave my harp case carefully through the frame and place it with caution against the wall. I go back into the corridor and kick the lump of a suitcase in, sliding it along the wooden floor.
I shut the door behind me quickly. I have never liked opened doors.
Even with Natasha's heels clicking along and her enthusiastic tone of voice booming about how much she envies me for moving into this large modern apartment with its spectacular city views, I am instantly struck by how empty the place feels.
From the door, I can see for most it would be open plan heaven. The living space leads through to the dining area, and through further to a lounge made for entertaining. I am not planning on having any friends over, perhaps because I don't have any. Well, not any more.
My friends have now been replaced by noise. The noise of the city I have just moved to.
The noise of cars, buses, trains, people shouting, people muttering, people coughing, people.
The noise of phones ringing, music playing, bass thumping, doors closing, doors opening, doors.
The noise of advertising boards cluttering the walls of high-rise buildings. The noise of schizophrenic signs, all pointing in different directions but all leading to the same place; meaningless nowhere.
The noise of shops, and manipulation, and greedy capitalist bosses exploiting other greedy capitalist slaves. The noise of money and too much food and too much entertainment and too much choice.
Too much choice sedates the mind from actually realising there is no choice. The city is nothing more than a pen keeping cows primed for regular milking. The city is noise, deafening the mind.
People talk about the pulse of the city. I only feel a numbing, dull throb.
I don’t keep friends any more, just pills and noise.
But, the academy is here, and so I am here.
‘Well I really hope you enjoy this place, make the most of it! You just have to throw some amazing parties here,’ Natasha beams.
‘Yep. I’ll throw the best party for one this place has ever seen. Every night,’ I smile sarcastically.
Natasha smiles awkwardly.
She is young, but her pretty face and slim body (which wears her suit like a glove) has perhaps allowed her to rise faster than other young estate agents. Her bubbly demeanour no doubt also helps to lure the client into a sense of excitement about the properties she presents. She is the opposite of me. I am an introvert, a grump and a long time sufferer of Dissociative Identity Disorder. Sounds fun doesn’t it?
A huge clang sounds out, making both Natasha and I jump. I rush over to pick up my last remaining friend; my harp. Natasha helps me lift the bulk and we lean it back against the wall with care.
Later I have my harp placed on the stand, with my stool readied next to it. But I can’t bring myself to play just yet.
1.2
I am still lying flat on the wooden floorboards, the same place as when Natasha left one hour ago, and still tracing my eyes over the uneven texture of the ceiling.
My necklace pendant buzzes and I sigh, before standing up and heading for the kitchen, opening the pendant and pressing a button inside to stop the alarm. The pendant looks beautiful, I guess; a silver embossed heart. But it is ugly to me.
I open one cupboard after another, trying to locate where the glasses are. I took this place mainly because it was completely and utterly furnished. I have few material possessions of my own.
I finally find a glass, fill it half way with tap water and then pull out of my pocket a small tray. I open the lid of the tray and inside sit several compartments set out in calendar rows and columns. My fingers find the right day and time in the cut out calendar and then pick the first pill from the specific compartment; a round yellow dis
c shaped pill.
I pop it in my mouth. Gulp water. Swallow. Close eyes.
That’s better.
I take the second pill from the compartment. This one is blue and red, and oblong, with a division in the middle.
Pop in mouth. Gulp water. Swallow. Close eyes.
That’s better.
As a child, imaginary friends are thought of as cute (and oh how they giggled at my cuteness). They understood how an imaginary friend could provide comfort and companionship for a child, an outlet for their frustrations and a way of understanding adult interactions. All very useful, and it also happens to be very funny for an adult to see a child berating thin air, or laughing hysterically with an empty chair.
As the child grows into an adult, as I grew from cute child Melissa into sully, moody teenage Melissa and then into sour, depressed young adult Melissa, others stopped perceiving it as cute. Cute became Dissociative Identity Disorder, amongst other things. Friends became enemies. Freedom became a dependency on these damn pills. Three pills, three times a day, every day.
Pop in mouth. Gulp water. Swallow. Close eyes.
That’s better.
What isn’t better is my renewed focus upon living in an ugly reality since I have become the new improved, pill dependent, self-deceiving me.
I am not built for real friends. I find it nearly impossible to trust anyone; I am always looking for signs of how they are going to screw me over, which they will do.
I have plenty of experience enjoying my own company, peppering my solitary existence with friends that I design, that I choose. I got so good at being my own God, that I could create a friend to fit any situation, any mood or any desire, at will.
Now that my powers of creation have been restrained, I still prefer my own company, quiet though it is, to having to breathe the same air with normal people. Normal translates to empty in my language. I don’t want to be empty, but I feel I am emptying more and more each day.
As the sun sets over London city and the blur of city lights outside the balcony French windows become a montage of colours, I am bored of counting the different windows I could peep into if I had a telescope.
1.3
Time for the grand tour of my new apartment, led by me. I adopt a cheesy but friendly tour hostesses voice, belonging to the type of peroxide blonde bimbo that you might find on a Jack the Ripper tour through the east end of London. I roll my left hand to create a tube and hold it to my mouth.
‘Let’s start at the furthest most room, the bathroom. The home of indulgent, expensive tiles and a tremendously chic frosted green glass walk-in shower.’
I never understood why bigger showers were called walk-in showers. It’s not like there are crawl-in showers available instead.
I run my hand over the glass, observing the huge air bubbles trapped inside and admiring the curvature of the cylindrical walls. I wind into the middle, until I am standing in the centre, underneath the imposing oversized showerhead. I look up at the hundreds of tiny holes where the water would shoot out.
I am standing in a thin pink blouse with flowers on it, tucked into my black skirt, and my favourite knee length homely black and white striped socks, but yet I feel an overwhelming compulsion to turn the shower on.
Still looking up, I smile and ready myself. I turn the handle and out shoots water from half of the pinholes bearing down on me. It is cold and I gasp immediately, breathing in hard and tensing up my shoulders and then my whole body.
I laugh with a shivering yelp at the surprising pain only a cold waterfall can bring to your bones.
The water begins to warm, and I turn the handle further until it turns no more. My eyes are closed, but I can tell the remaining holes are now flowing too. The shower is hot.
I am being drenched and loving it.
My blouse, thin already, is now clinging to my stomach and chest, and the skirt is draped around my legs as tight as the last hug my mother gave me at the train station.
But I feel liberated.
Anytime I do something spontaneous, I feel good. I feel alive.
After standing under the shower, enclosed by the comforting green spiral of glass, for what must be over twenty minutes, I turn the handle back until the water no longer runs and the drainage gurgles next to my feet.
I step out and find on a railing his and her towels. I’m being rebellious today, so I take the his towel and, without rush, scrunch the towel against my stringy, dripping black hair.
I continue the tour.
1.4
‘And here is the fully fitted gymnasium, equipped with the latest in personal fitness enablers.’
The free weights lay in a haphazard mess and the bulky machines are cramped into what I can only guess used to be a second bedroom. I don’t eat much, but I exercise even less. This is one room I won’t be using much.
‘Further along the exquisitely decorated hall is the master bedroom, a large and spacious haven for sleep and relaxation.’
I flick the light switch and peer into the room. A double-sized bed with a heavy thick duvet sits close to the far wall while nearer to me is the wardrobe; big enough to house a few people, never mind my tiny collection of clothes.
My attention is taken by the bedside cabinet and by a framed photo of a smiling girl. The frame is slightly chipped but the image is radiant. I walk up to the small wooden cabinet and pick the frame up in my hand. The photo must have been taken on a bright and sunny summer’s day, in a park judging by the trees behind her.
She looks a little like me, but her smile is a million times happier than mine could ever be. I envy her and admire her in equal measures. She is truly beautiful. I wish I could smile like that.
I put the framed photo back down and decide to keep it there. The previous tenant must have left it and until they come back for it I’ll keep it as mine. She can be my new friend.
With my hand on the light switch, I look back at the picture again. I feel a bittersweet smile threaten to appear on my face, and I guess it does for a few seconds, before I kill the lights.
Dark.
‘And now for the real spectacle, the wonderful
open plan living room, kitchen, balcony and all round beacon of modern heaven!’
I stand in the middle and look around me. Yep, still feels empty as hell.
There is a rather eccentric looking mirror standing near the wall that I placed my harp against earlier. It is full length and the frame is solid wood with gold detail; a whimsical, swirling pattern circumnavigating the immaculate glass in the middle. Everything is beautiful about this mirror, except the reflection in it.
I am ugly. I know this. I am comfortable with this.
Not in the sense that society tends to view ugliness however. To some, I am considered attractive; they tend to use words like captivating, or striking, or some other complimentary word designed to get into my underwear.
I lean forward and peer into the mirror; my figure is slender and agile, not that I make much use of it. I haven’t run since high school physical education lessons when I was forced. I haven’t had sex since … well I don’t want to talk about that. I do dance, but only in private, which is most of the time. It makes me feel good.
My black hair hides a multitude of sins; my pale skin, my lips (chaffed from biting them too hard) and my ears (marked by countless holes from my earlier self-piercing obsession that have now all closed up).
My blue eyes hide nothing. They reveal every emotion. I curse my eyes.
1.5
I stare into my reflection and force a smile, just a little one. My cheekbones rise but my eyes don’t change. You know how you can tell if a smile is genuine? The eyes give it away. They squeeze up, and those laughter lines begin to show. If they don’t, and all you’re seeing is the corners of a mouth lift up, then it is forced.
I am not sure I remember how to smile in a carefree and genuine way with real people anymore.
I practice different smiles in front of the mirror; the sed
uctive smile, the cheeky smile, the embarrassed smile, the giving smile, even the sarcastic smile. I do them all so well.
My smile drops.
Looking into my eyes I see the little girl I once was and wish I could be once more. I try smiling for real, but I look so sad to me.
So it’s time to shake it off. I pull the most ridiculous faces I can. I push my nose aside, I stick my tongue out and I pull at my ears. I then open my mouth. Wider. Wider still. I make like I am about to scream, my eyes popping out of their sockets.
And relax.
Oh dear, boredom is making me crazy. I thought those pills were meant to keep me sane?
It is past midnight and I really should go to bed. I have an early start tomorrow morning for my first day at the academy. Turning up without any sleep would not be a good first impression.
Pop in mouth. Gulp water. Swallow. Close eyes.
That’s better.
Repeat twice.
Then I unscrew the top of a bottle of sleeping pills. Oh, did I forget to mention? I’m also a recovering Insomniac. Dissociative Identity Disorder and Insomnia sort of went hand in hand with me. Why sleep when you have so many imaginary friends to keep you occupied? Even though the friends are now gone, Insomnia still clings on.
And so now, as with everything else in my life, there’s a pill to sedate that too.
Pop in mouth. Gulp water. Swallow. Close eyes.
Sleep.
2.1
I have just entered a war and I feel like I am armed only with a water pistol. Everyone else seems to be packing AK47 assault rifles, or M60 machine guns; heavy-duty firepower to decimate my fragile flesh with. They stare me down like steroid imbibed soldiers ready for the kill, as I hold tight to the metal bars in this fast moving tube carriage.
The Haunted Hikikomori Page 6
