girl next door

My eyes snap open and blood’s whipping up towards a cube of sun on the wall. The cracked ceiling smirks down at me: God, sharpening his knife and fork over a dying sinner.
But this is not a death scene and God is nowhere near. This is my regular morning after
scene. And it’s the last time.
My telephone beep-beeps across the bathroom.
Unfamiliar voices intertwine outside the door; they could have been doing so for hours.
The stench of piss from the puddle next to me is curdling with the hum of iron and twisting my
stomach. Dead-cold tiles have rendered my back an ice patch and my muscles rusted metal. It’s
bad form to panic but this place is new to me and could be anywhere in the city, if I’m still in
the city.
"Take her back to where you found her," one of the voices rises above the rest.
Last night I was plucked from ‘The Trio Line Bar.’ This I do remember. It’s a regular nest
to find them, but going back there is not an option; this all ends today. The first cut was carved into my shoulder in a cubicle in the men's room. His efforts were painful in his zeal and rampant enough that his grunting got us thrown out of there.
If slices can't be located by pain they’ll be minor: my left breast is definitely gashed, a
welt throbs above my nipple and the way his jaw clacked at my shoulder, I’d put good money
on the guy from the cubicle being responsible; on my right foot there’s a wet sting between my
biggest toes; the inside of my right thigh hosts an arc that screeches from above the knee and
disappears back down the outside.
Beep-beep, beep-beep, and I click my head in the direction of the rattling echo, and see
my clothes pleading with me across the field of white tiles in a language I don’t get: my
McDonalds’ work uniform scrunched into a ball under the basin and not a splinter of memory
flashes to tell me how it got there; a sock drooping off the doorknob like a used condom; my
shredded bra mottled with blood and spit; my knickers piss stained and wrung out in front of
the shower stall where I’m stuck.
If too far is a place, I was unconscious before they got me there. My head voice whines:
Please. This is not fun anymore Linda.
My hands slap around for friction on the bloody-wet tiles and I slam back down on my elbows. In Barbie Doll posture from spine-tail to crown, I picture my mother saying, “Posh people look like they’ve got a stick up their arse!” My chuckle sprays dots of red onto my pallid
skin.
“I want that cunt out of here! You brought her back, you sort it out, you stupid fucking
prick.” Feet scuttle on the other side of the door and heavy wood slams, rattling this side of the
house. A car engine roars then silence smothers like a velvet curtain, making my ears ring.
My dead best friend Marianne smiles at me as I shut my eyes, and then her face is from
the open coffin, yelling at me to stop this now.
I flip onto my stomach and push upwards, wobble my way between doggy position and two feet, and ignore the head-spin that will pass unless I faint first.
The sunbeam scorches above me and I force my arms up through the pain of frozen muscle, letting it warm my hands.
“Hey, Linda? It’s time, girl. You ready?” That’s the one who supped from my shoulder.
Who tore a trench into my breast.
Beep-beep, beep-beep. Fuck. Off. The person texting at this time of day is going to be
Suzy, a girl from work, on a morning shift, who thinks we’re good friends. Or, it’ll be my mother.
They can both wait.
“Yes…” My voice dries up immediately. I spin the tap on.
Balancing against the wall, I catch the mirror and the shining incision that swerves up
and down the back of my thigh; half a McDonald’s M, in red.
“Linda…I’m sorry…but we’ve got to go now. Okay girl?”
Pulling my mouth away from the tap and gasping for breath after the excessive intake, I
spit out a Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. That little bastard needn’t pity me.
The carving between my toes opens as I shuffle across the tiles and it smears red tracks,
like I’m dragging a butchered rodent under my foot. I wave a fizzing arm at my sock and get
dressed sitting on the toilet seat. I bin my underwear, the shame of it masked by bundles of
tissue paper.
I turn in stages: a broken ballerina, moving without lifting my heels.
Sunlight drenches the room when I peel open the bathroom door. “Hi!” This kid smiles
and pulls himself up from the floor. His cheeks flush. The strip of chocolate in his paw is
melting.
“Whatever.” My hand waits for that sugar agent. He pauses, waiting for a hello or a smile, which he doesn’t get.
“Give me that now or you’ll not see me again” My mouth barely opens when I speak.
“Take it easy girl!” He dances from one foot to the next, “Here, take it.” His mitt strokes
my hand as I grab the chocolate and snap off a chunk and stuff it in my mouth.
Chewing and snatching breaths I wink at him and sway into his shoulder. “I believe it’s
that time?”
His glassy eyes only see sex acts, right here in the hallway. Then the penny drops: “Oh…fuck, it is.” He turns his beetroot face away. “Fuck,” and he storms out of the front door.
Singing birds remind me I’m trespassing on their hour, their tune a cacophony as I shiver
onto the path and inch towards the car. The bleakness subsides as I remember it’s my last day
of self-loathing. I picture my home, rest, and a new life.
My head clunks against the passenger window and I dive into unconsciousness as soon as we pull out of the driveway.
Loud music pulls me awake, and the kid is laughing. “You’re gonna be fine, girl. Get home. Get some fluids.”
The first pain I feel is my raw throat. “Eh?”
“As long as nothing’s stained, there’s no problem for you.” He flicks a zippo lighter open
and sparks a cigarette. “Goodbye.”
A school friend of mine springs past the car with her husband and two daughters, all holding hands. She looks at me without a flinch of recognition.
“You have a good day now.” I get out of the car and hobble over the road to the taxi
rank.
A gang chases a football outside my tower block: team direction is indiscernible as they
follow the ball like buffalo sprinting towards a cliff edge, desperate to escape the hunters at
their heels. One kid salutes an imaginary crowd with a double ‘Fuck You’ finger salute, and
another picks up the ball and boots it back into the crowd, where it disappears, and their blind
running continues.
The neighbours who see me nod, then quickly look away as I walk up to my flat. They’re
all following through on their daily plans. Heading home in the morning wearing a work uniform
isn’t lost on these people, and I can’t lie if they don’t ask.
My telephone beeps as soon as I close the front door behind me and the message says,
C U@WORK 2DAY? R U OUT L8TR?? ;) ITS SUZY! LOL!! X
I guzzle a litre of water then start eating whatever is edible as I open the fridge. Three
packets of crisps, two tomatoes and a slab of cheese are devoured while waiting for the eggs
and bacon to cook. I switch the water heater on, go to bed with the food and set my alarm for
an hour later. Suzy can wait a while longer for my best bullshit excuses.
That groove on my breast stretches out when I lie on my back, so I curl onto my right
side to reduce the movement but only aggravate my bloody horse shoe. The droning television
keeps me company as I drift into sleep while still chewing a bacon sandwich.
A phone call, my mother, drills me into the room. She lets silence express her usual rant, and it hurts my head. “Yes, I’m fine. Nice weather again, isn’t it?”
The T.V. is a music show where a young woman is awarding a musician I don’t recognize
with a prize I’ve never heard of before. I escape the sound of my mother sniffling by throwing
the telephone at the wall and closing my eyes again. Within a blink the alarm for the shower
rings.
Rap music is my neighbour’s lullaby, and the only sleep I get all day is napping between
bouts of staring at different daytime programmes. Another alarm blasts me alive at five o’ clock
and I dress the wounds, drink more water and catch the bus to work, where I pinch dinner then
start another shift at six o’ clock.
I’m clocking in and, the boss, after clearing his throat not once, but twice, points his
beady eyes at me, “Do you still work here?” The people about to start a shift swivel their heads
in my direction-the kind of expressions you see on the ‘Guys’ that kids burn on Bonfire Night.
“Oh, no,” he puts his finger to his lips, “It was the other college grad I was thinking of.
You’re…oh, er, yeah it’s…Julie, right?” He taps the shoulder of his team leader, who smiles on
cue and they both start laughing, slapping each other. “When are you going to start that
medical profession of yours?”
My colleagues snicker and the team leader pulls himself out of a crease, and squares up
to me, “Eat some fruit or something,” pointing his finger at my chest, “you look like a bleeding…zombie.”
“It’s the new look, didn’t you know?” I look him up and down then brush past him.
Between six and twelve o’ clock is a battle with myself about what will happen after my shift.
The midnight air tightens up my sore leg as I exit into the back alley. A couple stagger
arm in arm, laughing at someone I can’t see. My head voice kicks in with new volition: Being
alone won’t help. You’ll never stop by being alone. You’ll make it worse if you’re alone.
I decide to take the high street route to the bus stop, and the city pulls at me from
behind the glass of his bars and pubs: a group of men Morris Dancing while everyone claps to
their rhythm; women, wearing matching red t-shirts and wings, singing ‘Dancing Queen’ on karaoke; three beauties chatting up a line of men in a doorway; girls in boob tubes and mini-skirts handing out flyers for nightclubs; ‘Fire’ pumping out of one bar, ‘Setting Sun’ from another and ‘Umbrella’ from the next; men with eyes wider than they should be and a girl lying on a taxi rank floor with vomit in her hair and her boyfriend on top of her.
What difference will one drink make? One drink is good for you.
Lights flash through the windows, turning puddles into multi-coloured mirrors. The city
is going to be alive for hours yet. The best way to beat it is to face it. Go to a bar, where you can talk. Be part of the crowd. Have one drink. If you’re offered another, take it, then leave. Easy.
A group walks towards me and one of the girls is centre of attention, “…and I just told
him he can piss off, the miserable twat, I’ll talk to who I want!” Her friend has an arm around
her shoulder and smacks a big kiss onto her cheek. They all cheer, and a man takes over, “Right
then, that’s that, it looks like we’re out for a long night ladies and gents.”
At the corner, about to turn left for the bus terminal, I stop, and a voice starts in my head again: Just go, now! This silliness hesitation is stopping people getting close to you! It’s your fault! Go! Now!
‘Air City’ is a bar I haven’t been to for a while, but I march back up the high street for a
post work drink. A well-deserved drink after that fucking shitty shift at Maccy fucking D’s.

My best friend Marianne had first taken me to ‘Air City’ after explaining her ritual of
finding the right man, then thrilling him with the power she offered. I had taken convincing.
‘Absolute release,’ is what Marianne had called it when we were running in the park and I was
pressing about her scars. For months I thought she’d been self-harming, and was about to call
her parents for help when she finally told me.
We’d been running together for three years, a weekend hobby started during college, and how she’d maintained the routine until so close to the end is a mystery to me now. I can barely stand watching people do exercise.
“But how do you know if it’s gonna be safe?” I panted in my attempt to keep up with
her graceful strides through the grass. She let out a sigh like I was the last in a long line of
people to ask this.
“Why would I want to know that?” Her laugh always won me over. “Come on Linda, we’re gonna be late back, save your breath.” Her blond pony-tail whipped from side to side as she ran ahead.
We followed the path back down the hill through the winter freeze in silence. “Ok” my
breath gunned out and steam came off of us both, “But think about all the other men you’ll be
losing out on if you keep on doing this…this...” She slowed right down and my heartbeat
thumped in my ears as I came to a gradual stop.
“Who?” Her expression was an unkind smile, like I’d misunderstood a joke.
“I don’t know, anyone, we could have any men in the world.” I revised my opinion when she laughed. “Ok then, you could,” I walked off. “Fuck you, Marianne, I’m just concerned.”
“Linda!” I heard her running after me. “How have these men ever made you feel? Special?”
I slowed down and scrolled through my head for a partner that had made me feel like I was an individual.
I did that thing with my hair, brushing it forwards from the crown, that Marianne said I
always did when I had no retort. She looked away to hide a giggle.
“Well, how the hell does a fucking …a what? What the fuck’s wrong with these people?” My voice wobbled. “How does getting bled make you feel? Special? Go on: How?”
“Oh Linda.” She moved forward to put her arms around me.
“Fuck you Marianne.” My aggression was mainly to stop me from crying, “I’m just scared you’re not being treated right, and if all you can do is laugh then fuck you!”
“Linda, stop,” she put her hands on her hips, “You’re looking at this the wrong way”
“Oh right!” My best impression of laughter fooled neither of us.
“Linda these people…”
“Yeah, what?” I tried exasperation, but nothing I was doing was for real. Now, I doubt anything I’d done up to that point in my life had ever been for real.
“You wanna know how they make me feel Linda? How this…” she pulled up her top to show a six inch scar across her stomach that was raw around the edges, “makes me feel?”
I nodded then shook my head, then nodded again. “Yes…well, no I do, I want to know they, how they, them, make you feel, the people.”
Marianne digged her eyes into me. “Linda, they make me feel pretty.”
Her eyes moved to the side, and her bottom lip shook, like the truth had been a secret,
even to herself.
“Come on,” I said, for a lack of anything else coming to mind, “Let’s get back and get showered before the real ghouls find us.” Marianne cried a little then laughed then squeezed me, and we walked in the direction of the road, and home.
That night we stayed in and made our way through three litres of wine and forty cigarettes, chatting like everything was okay. I pretended everything was okay for a while. Even after I’d joined her. Especially then.
Marianne was found dead six months ago, in that park, with her throat cut.
Police are still looking for a murderer while I’m waiting for one of our regulars to vanish,
but nobody ever has.

‘Head Over Heels’ is pounding out of ‘Air City’ as I approach the main entrance. Through
the window Suzy spots me and moves through the crowd towards the door. She’s waving her
hands and the light of her Black Berry zooms around her face; grinning with coke head
happiness.
Don’t walk away. Tolerate her. You’re here now. Be polite. Let her buy you a drink.
Say your phone is broken. She may need you.
Both bouncers kiss my cheek, and one puts his mouth to my ear, “Good to see you back.” He winks at me, and the pain from my leg disappears as I stroll in. The barman spots me, ignores the scrum of people in front of him, and pours my vodka and lime.

Suzy shines as she approaches, all lip gloss and heels. “My God!” Her body opens up to wrap itself around me, “You fucking made it Linda baby-I didn’t even know you got my messages! You’re here hun!”
Don’t exclude her. She’s never harmed you. She needs it. Stop thinking of yourself.
I kiss Suzy on the cheek and whisper, “Let’s have a good time, yeah?”
As she sits down I swear I can see a tear behind that grin, and I can make it all go away.