by Juno Dawson
Another day, another downpour.
Yet I’m standing outside Storm’s stable.
I already know what Goldstein would say: that my cavalier attitude towards my physical wellbeing is indicative of crippling low self-esteem. Or something. I do not value myself, so I play Russian Roulette with a million different guns.
So, prime example: I’m here. And I’m going in.
I don’t know why, but I want to.
The weather, appropriately, is stormy: right now it’s stopped raining, but the wind persists. Everyone was cooped up inside the house and I couldn’t take it any more. The walls were closing in. I had to get out. I borrowed a hideous cagoule from Elaine’s house and went for a quick hack through the woods on Patty, although she wasn’t feeling the weather one bit, even under the shelter of the trees.
Now my thighs hurt, my leggings are soaked, and I’m sweating inside the raincoat. And for whatever reason, my feet have led me here.
I can hear him snorting, kicking against the door. The whole structure shakes.
I must be insane.
This horse is gonna kill me.
Just in case, I put my helmet back on.
I just can’t leave it alone.
Everything I do feels like it’s driven by a grinning demon at my core. He’s jet black with white teeth and eyes. What can I make the mad bitch do today? I’m his brainless puppet.
I unlatch the stable door and peep into the gloom. Storm whinnies, tossing his silver mane from side to side. Sweat shines on his flanks. He paces the stable, cursing the walls on all sides. His eyes are wild, rolling back into his skull.
‘What’s up?’ I say.
Storm retreats into the darkest cobwebby corner, claws at the hay with a frustrated hoof.
‘I’m coming in, OK?’
He doesn’t charge at me, he doesn’t do anything, so I unlatch the bottom half of the door. ‘It’s just me. Elaine isn’t here, so you don’t have to act like a dick. I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.’
He rears up, kicking his hooves. I don’t move any further in. I freeze.
‘OK, I get it. You’re the boss. God, chill out.’ He paces, almost performing a box-step.
I take another couple of inches towards him. ‘See? I’m not so bad, am I? If you want to get out of here, you need to chill out. I’ll let you in the pen.’
His head dips slightly. He snorts down his nostrils.
‘But I need to put a bridle on and clip a rope on it, or we can’t go. Does that sound fair? What do you think?’
He takes a step towards me and I very slowly reach out and stroke his head. He pulls away, but not viciously. He just doesn’t want to be stroked. Fair.
I back to the wall and take the bridle off the hook. I show it to him. ‘You ready?’ He seems to know what to do. He bows his head and lets me slide the bridle over it. ‘There. Painless, right?’
I attach a guide rope and he basically drags me out of the stable towards the pen, like it was all his idea in the first place. I’m not going to let him dominate me though. I’m no pushover. I tug on the rope, letting him know I’m still there. He doesn’t like it. I tug again, not giving up. Oh, I can be stubborn too, motherfucker.
I try to dig my heels in, but they just slide through wet mud. He’s too strong for me. If I’m not careful, he’ll drag me face-first along the track. I let him go and he runs into the pen, rope trailing behind him. ‘Storm!’ I cry after him. ‘Stop!’
I give up and watch him careening in circles. I’ll have to trap him in the pen and wait for Elaine to get back to help me. I hope she’s not too mad I let him out. Still, I got tack on him. It’s a first step. Maybe he’s not such a lost cause after all.
There’s more drama at dinner time. Kendall isn’t gaining weight – and I know why – so they’ve upped her calorie intake. It doesn’t go down well and she’s kept back after we all leave to finish what’s on her plate. The others gather in the gym for yoga and meditation.
Thanks, no thanks.
‘Can I go make sure Kendall’s OK?’ I ask boynurse Marcus. She’s still being force-fed in the dining room as far as I know.
‘I guess. But then you both need to come down here. It’s not optional.’
Mandatory meditation? That’s relaxing. ‘OK, I’ll get her.’
I head back to the dining room, but she’s gone. I follow voices and wander through to one of the activity rooms in the new block that looks pretty much like an art studio: there’s screen-printing stuff and easels. Kendall is drawing at one of the workstations, making menacing black shapes with a piece of black charcoal. Round and round her arm swoops. Her fingers are coalminer filthy and she’s chuntering angrily to herself.
I don’t think she’s aware of me. I clear my throat. ‘You OK?’
In shock, she drops her charcoal. ‘Fuck! You scared me!’ She takes a breath. ‘No, to answer your question. I feel disgusting. I hate it. I hate feeling food in my body. I’m bloated and fat.’ She spits the last word out.
I went to a girls’ school. I know it’s futile to tell someone with an eating disorder anything other than what they want to hear, so I say nothing but enter the studio to join her.
‘I’m so over how everyone wanks themselves off over food,’ she goes on. ‘It’s a national obsession. I am a hundred per cent bored of talking about it.’
I smile. ‘Like those basic bitches who take pictures of avocados every five minutes. I’m like, what is wrong with you? It’s an avocado.’
She laughs. She stops circling. ‘Oh my god, avocado is the very most basic. That or sourdough pizza.’
‘I think there’s like a periodic table of basic. Kale is high up on there too. Or any form of juicing.’
She laughs, throwing her hair back. ‘We should totally make a periodic table of basic. What else would be on it?’
I pull up a stool next to her. ‘Erm, I dunno. Like, Man Buns?’
‘Brady sometimes does a Man Bun.’
‘Basic.’
‘Ooh,’ Kendall claps, ‘those colour runs with the powder paint.’
‘So basic. While you’re at it, those super masc obstacle courses where you pay to crawl through mud and shit.’
She holds up a finger. ‘People whose favourite smell is earth after the rain.’
‘So. Fucking. Basic. And extra points for basic bitches who think they’re clever for knowing it’s called “petrichor”.’
‘Is that what it’s called? Who knew. Basic. The Kardashians?’
‘Sorry, hon, but that’s a given.’ I hold up a triumphant finger. ‘Got it – adult colouring books.’
‘Yes. Megabasic.’
I pause. ‘Hold up. Maybe saying “basic” is basic.’
‘Shit.’ Kendall considers her swirly artwork. She chooses her next words carefully. ‘Look, I know I’m really sick. I know obsessing over the sugar content of a grape isn’t right. I know that this thing might kill me. I might really die. But some days, I would rather die than eat. It’s a contest. If I eat, I lose; if I die, I’m dead. Is that the most insane thing you’ve ever heard?’
I don’t really want a Care Bear heart-to-heart. Do I bring up her night jogging? I don’t want her to feel cornered or attacked. I can’t cure Kendall any more than I could cure cancer like I was human chemo. I guess I just have to ‘be a pal’.
‘Fuck it. Maybe we’re all sick. If we’re sick, it’s not our fault,’ I say sarcastically.
Kendall’s eyes widen and she looks confused. ‘Lexi, it isn’t our fault.’
There’s a sudden crash – glass breaking – followed by the sound of shouting and screaming. Kendall looks at me and we both spring off our stools. We hurry to the corridor. The commotion seems to be coming from the entrance hall end. ‘Is it someone new?’ Kendall asks.
‘Only one way to find out.’
We’re about halfway down the hall when Marcus barges past us, almost flooring me in the process. ‘Get to the gym NOW,’ he barks. Clearly ignorin
g that instruction, we follow him at a safe distance.
As we enter the main hall, three nurses swarm over someone I can’t see. The smashing noise was one of the huge jade green vases, which now lays in Easter-egg fragments all over the tiles. I see arms and legs squirming in the mass.
‘You like that?’ A girl screams, her voice hoarse. ‘You like feeling my tits, yeah? You like having a good feel of my body? Keep doing it! I’m gonna cum!’
I hide a snigger behind my hand. Wish I’d thought of that one. First me, then Saif, now her . . . doesn’t anyone walk into this place?
‘Stand up, Sasha!’ Scouse Gary yells.
‘Have you ever touched a minge, Gazza?’ the voice says. ‘Does the thought of a wet pussy make you feel sick?’
Marcus gets involved and the others break to let him in. Between the four of them, they haul a surprisingly slight mixed-race girl to her feet. She’s naked, except for some boy’s boxer shorts and Doc Martens on her feet. Her hair flies around her face in long braids. ‘Get the fuck off me! I can’t breathe! Which one of you fascist fuckers gonna get sued first if I can’t breathe? It’s my asthma! I need an inhaler.’
‘Sasha, honey, you don’t have asthma,’ says Joyce.
‘You willing to take that risk? My Grandma got that asbestos in her attic, innit? Put me down!’ Sasha flails her arms and legs around. She wriggles free and throws herself across the main reception desk like some sort of mad commando. I lurk in the doorway with Kendall. Brady, Guy and Ruby approach, coming to see what’s going on.
‘What’s happening?’ Guy asks.
‘Some new girl,’ I say.
Kendall, looking ghostly pale, shakes her head. ‘It’s not a new girl,’ she says. ‘It’s Sasha.’
Ruby throws her hands up. ‘Aw, hell no!’
‘Ruby . . .’ Brady tries to calm her.
‘Who is she?’ I ask, but I’m drowned out by Ruby.
‘There’s no goddamn way I’m staying here if that psycho’s back.’
Sasha hides behind the reception desk, playing cat and mouse with the nurses. ‘I can hear you, Ruby,’ she calls. ‘You lost some weight, sweet tits? I think I can see some neck peeking through.’
‘Fuck you, Sasha, fuck you all the way.’
Dr Ahmed, in jeans and a blouse, and without her hijab, sweeps in through the front door, carrying her doctor’s bag. ‘Sorry it took me so long,’ she mutters to the nurses. ‘Hello, Sasha,’ she says. ‘It’s lovely to see you again.’
‘No, it bloody isn’t,’ Kendall calls.
Dr Ahmed glances over at us. ‘All of you get to your rooms,’ she calls. ‘This is lockdown.’
What the hell is lockdown? Suddenly, I’m not at a fancy clinic – I’m in prison.
‘Go, now!’
The nurses move in on Sasha and she starts throwing things. She swings the phone around by its cable like a lasso.
‘Stay away! Stay away? This ain’t gonna go down like last time. I ain’t gonna play. Sasha don’t play.’ Suddenly she throws the phone at Scouse Gary and grabs a hole punch. She hurls it towards Ruby. As Ruby ducks out of the way, Kendall crashes into me and I feel the hole punch make contact with my head. ‘Ow!’ My hand flies to my forehead.
‘Hold her still,’ Ahmed says, filling a syringe. Marcus and Joyce restrain Sasha, and Ahmed delivers the injection to her arm.
‘You should have let me die last time,’ Sasha says, the whites of her eyes blazing from her sweaty face. ‘You gonna regret saving me. Sleep tonight knowing that. I’m a pox on your house. I am plague and pestilence.’ She relaxes into Marcus’s big arms, going floppy like a rag doll.
Kendall grasps my arms. ‘Lexi? Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ I pull back my hand and see there’s blood on my fingers. Maybe I’m not fine.
‘You’re bleeding,’ Brady says.
‘See? You see what she’s done?’ Ruby continues to rant. ‘We are not safe with her here!’
Ahmed comes over, eyes blazing. ‘You know I’m pretty sure I said “lockdown” and yet here you all are. Sasha will be in isolation until further notice. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Lexi, let me look.’ She examines my head. ‘It shouldn’t need a stitch. Gary? Will you get Lexi cleaned up? Thank you.’ She regards the rest of the group calmly. ‘Don’t you all have some meditation to do?’
I watch Joyce and Marcus drag the skinny topless girl towards the Safe Room. I look at everyone else’s faces. They’re all tight-lipped, grey and grave.
They all looked scared.
After Gary has wiped away the blood and cleaned the wound and stuck a plaster on my head, I go out onto the terrace for a cigarette. I feel a bit woozy. It’s probably just adrenaline comedown. I’ve had worse comedowns; I’ll live.
The rain has blown over and it’s a clear, chilly night. The sky is cloudless, filled with more stars than I’ve ever seen. It’s like God’s spewed them across the cosmos. Are there really that many suns? I remember Nikolai once telling me that some stars are already dead, the light reaching our eyes long after they stopped burning. I wonder – if I pick one, and stare at it long enough, will it go out?
‘Here.’ I didn’t even hear Brady slide the doors open. He places his hoodie over my shoulders. ‘It’s cold.’
‘Do you smoke?’
‘I’m trying to quit.’ He takes one anyway and I offer him a light. ‘I think I need one tonight though.’
‘Who is she?’
He takes a long drag on the cigarette before answering. ‘Someone we thought we’d seen the last of.’
‘That bad?’
He smiles. ‘No one’s that bad.’ He smiles more. ‘But she’s bad.’
I smile back. ‘Great. Just when I start to think this place might not actually be Hades.’
‘I think you should decide for yourself,’ he says. ‘But it’s been a lot quieter without Sasha, look at it that way.’
‘What’s her story?’
‘Lord and Lady Denhulme do some outreach work with a charity. Sometimes they accept a patient . . .’
‘Who isn’t filthy rich?’ I finish my cigarette and stub it out. ‘How philanthropic of them.’
‘Philanthropic . . . good word score.’
‘I read a book once.’
‘I can tell.’
‘Have you ever met this Lord and Lady?’
‘No. No one has.’
‘Ooh, spooky.’
‘Sasha was already here when I arrived. She’s . . . a lot.’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘I’ll say.’ He finishes his cigarette and reaches over me to dump it in the ashtray. He’s close, almost up against me. ‘How’s the head?’
I grin up at him. ‘Never had any complaints.’
I move an inch closer and he does the same. We’re almost hip to hip. I can see his nipples erect through his baseball jersey. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘No,’ he says.
It falls silent.
Our eyes meet, then lock. Sometimes words are so unnecessary.
This is where the kiss goes. He lowers his head towards me. I know I shouldn’t – hello, Kurt – but Brady is right here and he looks so good. I just want . . . I need the contact. I want him to hold me as much as I want him to kiss me.
We’re so close.
But then he pulls back. ‘Sorry,’ he says.
For a second, I’m disappointed, but then I snap out of it. It’s fine. He probably just saved me some inner turmoil. I have a boyfriend. ‘Hey, no biggy.’
‘Sorry! God, awkward. What was that?’
I bite my lip and shrug.
‘I’m so lame! Shall we go find the others?’
‘OK. Sure.’
‘Hang on to the hoodie.’ We head towards the patio doors.
My head is sore. I feel dizzier. That was unexpectedly intense. I really wanted him to kiss me.
I feel guilty.
But I still want him to kiss me.
‘Would you say you w
ere happy?’ Goldstein asks. It is very sunny and I’d rather be outside instead of looking at blue sky over his shoulder through the window.
‘I’m in rehab,’ I say.
He smiles. ‘When was the last time you were happy?’
I frown. ‘I don’t know. What sort of question is that?’
‘It’s not really a difficult question, Lexi. When were you last blissfully happy?’
My nails look like shit. I wonder if I can get a shellac. ‘Is anyone “blissfully happy” past the age of about ten?’
‘Yes. Plenty of people. All the time, in fact.’
I pause. What does he want me to say? ‘I was low-key happy with Kendall last night until I got pelted with office equipment.’ I don’t mention I was happier with Brady. ‘I’m happy when I’m with Kurt.’
‘Happy? Or high?’
I laugh. ‘That’s a cheap shot.’
He smiles back. I try to look past the grizzly beard and wonder if Isaac Goldstein was in the Synagogue Hotties Calendar back in the day.
‘I apologise,’ he says. ‘Were you ever sober with Kurt?’
‘Yes,’ I say, but it’s a reflex. I don’t know. I must have been.
‘Can we talk about school?’ he asks, changing the subject. ‘You attended St Agnes in Kensington, is that right?’
I shoot back inside my shell. I wasn’t ready for him to tap that nerve. ‘Yes.’ Where is this going?
‘How was school? In many ways, I’d imagine that was one of the more consistent elements in your life?’
‘I guess so. It was fine.’
‘Friends?’
‘I had friends.’
He smiles. ‘Care to expand on them?’
We’re not going there. Not now, not ever. He can’t know what happened. My name was never in the papers. Or can he? ‘They weren’t into drugs or anything,’ I say. ‘They have nothing to do with anything.’
He nods, in an intensely irritating therapist way, and jots something in his notes.
After the session I try to ring Kurt. It rings, but then goes to his voicemail. I try three times but he doesn’t answer. ‘Pick up, you asshole,’ I mutter.
