Rush hour.
The train surges through the underground network like a snake on speed.
I have a fascination with guns, quite rare for a young middle-class woman of my ilk. It is the definition, the finality, the directness of pulling a trigger and unleashing irresistible power. I am fascinated with guns, because they are the opposite of me.
I spend the whole day nodding like one of those funny toy dogs in the back window of a car, head rocking forth at every bump. I nod when the academy dean shows me around and introduces me to the other tutors. I nod when I am offered coffee in the staff room (even though I hate coffee). I nod to every student in assessment of their harp playing abilities. They are all terrible, but I can’t tell them that.
I, on the other hand, was a gifted harp player. Gifted but wasted. Those that can’t do, teach.
The tube train screeches to a halt at my stop. I fall out with the crowd, file through the barriers and trek...
Home.
2.2
I drink water straight from the tap. I go online using the laptop provided by the landlord and spend an hour browsing gun videos; a Tar21 unloading a drum roll of bullets into targets peppered with singed holes.
I slide open the French windows and step out onto the balcony. Looking down it feels twice as high as the twelve floors up the lift button tells me I am. The bustling London crowds swarm back and forth along the street below. It is the end of the working day and most are making their way home, some stop off for a fast food treat, others are clamping their mobile phones to their ears, and a few are even managing to walk and read the daily trashed-filled tabloid newspapers at the same time.
It is all the same; one way tickets on the fast train to realizing at the end of their lives that they accomplished nothing.
You know how hot-air balloon pilots judge the wind? They spit and watch which way it leans during the fall.
I look over the balcony railings and purse my lips together. I let saliva gather at the point where my full lips meet and then part them slightly. I watch the spit fall towards hard ground. I imagine it is me falling.
Fast.
Hitting the concrete slabs at the bottom.
Breaking.
The spit disappears out of sight, too small to be picked out as it descends. I stand still and stare down, my face a vacant mask. I want to jump so badly but I am a coward so I don’t. I have always been a coward.
I step back in. Back into the warmth and away from the chilly London air. I leave the French windows open to allow air to breeze in and keep this place from becoming stuffy. I hate stuffy.
The phone rings and I answer it to the familiar warm tones of my mother. She is all excited about hearing every single damn detail about my first day at the academy. I tell her what she wants to hear. She is happy.
My mother then asks all the obvious parental questions; am I eating well, what is weather like in London and is the heating working?
‘And are you taking your medication on time Melly?’I like when she calls me Melly, childish though it is. It reminds me of my father.
My father would tease me by playing hide-and-seek and pretending to struggle to find me.
My father would tickle my tummy when I was down.
My father would smile for me all the time.
My father took his life when I was six years old.I had crept down into the basement of our converted farmhouse, where my father would spend hours each day on his own listening to Wilson Picket records.
I was intending to jump out from behind him as a surprise once I had reached the bottom of the concrete steps, but halfway down I had already heard the snapping of the barrel and the cocking of the trigger. Before my foot touched the next step, I heard the bang and I saw my father’s body drop.
I can’t tell you why I didn’t go any further.
I can’t tell you why even though I knew something was terribly wrong and my mouth was wide open, I made no sound.
I can’t tell you why I turned back and went to my room to play with my friends.
I can’t tell you why I pretended I hadn’t seen a thing and only started to cry when my mother broke the news to me later that night that he was gone forever.
Mother still maintains to this day, that my father died from a heart attack. I don’t have the heart to tell her that I know the truth. It would break her.
My father would smile for me all the time, but his eyes never did. That was when I learned about forced smiles.
‘Melly?’ my mother prompts me on the phone.
‘Oh, sorry. Yes, yes I’m taking them all, every time my chest buzzes.’
‘And remember sweetheart, I got it waterproofed, so there’s no need to take if off in the shower or bath. Keep it on you all the time Melissa. Okay?’
I roll my eyes.
‘Yes, I’ve already tried it in the shower. It still works, so don’t worry I won’t take it off.’
‘Good good,’ my mother sounds clearly relieved.
Then there is a pause, before she speaks again.
‘Miss you.’
She does.
‘I miss you too.’
I do. Sort of.
‘Have to go now though mother. Dinner is in the oven; roast chicken and potatoes.’
As I put the phone down, the microwave pings and I pull out a one-minute burger. It takes me longer to eat it than to cook it. Surely that’s not right.
2.3
I make a cup of tea, finding a rather cute purple cup with sunflowers painted on it, and lounge along the sofa.
I kick my shoes off and let my toes wriggle in my pink socks. Expertly, I rub one foot against the other, until the left sock has been rolled up and over the heel. I then press on the end of the sock with my right foot, clamping it in place so I can pull my left foot free. I do the same for the right foot. It feels great to wiggle my bare toes as I clasp both hands around my hot cuppa and take a first sip.
I think about my first day at the academy. It doesn’t feel like me; repeating over and over again the same advice on harp playing to robotic youngsters; all individuality in them repressed by expectation. I feel like a sham, a fraud.
Another sip, savouring the taste.
I think about the woman outside the tube station, screaming and foaming at the mouth how Jesus died for our sins and how we are all going to Hell. Her wiry Afro hair and bloodshot eyes added to the maniacal expression on her face. I wanted to inform her that before black people were snatched from Africa, crammed into horrid vessels and transported to a life of slavery, they never knew of or believed in Christianity. I wanted to tell her that Christianity was forced onto black slaves to keep them in place, and I wanted to ask if that was what she now wanted to do to me; to use religion to suppress me too.
But I didn’t speak to her, no one did. Everyone hurried by, averting his or her eyes and ignoring the poor mad woman yelling on the corner of the street.
I swallow down my hot tea. I love the feel of the heat taking over my throat.
I journey to the end of the maze that is the spiral entrance to the shower. A jet of water powers out, cold at first. While it heats up, I disrobe.
My skin scolds immediately upon introduction to the now steaming hot shower shooting down over my naked body. I like it that way. If it isn’t stinging, it’s not hot enough.
I shampoo and condition, silky smooth as I scrunch my hair up with my fingers. My nipples harden under the water running over them and I stand still, my face tilted up to welcome the full flow of the waterfall above. Then it stops. The shower grinds to halt and the flow has now become a trickle as the last drops are squeezed out. I know I take long showers, but there should be more hot water than this!
I grab my towel and start to dry off, still frowning, still confused. I test the tap in the sink, and water shoots out. I turn back to the shower and tread over the wet cobbles carefully; smooth stones designed to provide grip but I still don’t trust them.
In the centre of the showe
r again, with my towel now wrapped around my body, I step back and try turning it on. I squeal as I realize I haven’t stepped back far enough when I am attacked by the gush of still hot water. I spin the handle the other way in a rush to shut it off.
I pace out of the bathroom, annoyed, leaving wet footprints behind me and not giving a damn if I drip all over the tiles and then the floorboards.
A quick wash of the purple and sunflower cup, before tucking it away again in the kitchen cupboard. Then I head for the laptop to play some rock music, loud.
I should close the balcony French windows I suppose; I wouldn’t want to be an inconsiderate neighbour to the flats around me with their windows open too. I then notice that the French windows are already closed. I don’t remember closing them.
2.4
The laptop’s media player kicks into life and an old favourite gets my toes tapping instantly. My body reacts before my mind does and I brush aside the question of how a machine has chosen a song without my dexterous fingers hovering over the track pad. I am taken away by the addictive melody and infectious beat. A guilty pleasure; It’s In His Kiss by Cher. I should be embarrassed but no one is looking.
I close my eyes and imagine a Mr Ten Out Of Ten holding his hand out for me to take with a smile that dives deep into my heart. I take his hand and we dance, slower than we really should be doing to this song. Slow and close, our bodies press against one another as our hips bop from side to side. Our eyes glint and our heads nod in unison.
I smile with my eyes closed dancing by myself. I miss being able to make imaginary characters real.
I might be healthier now, dosed up on pills that maintain reality as a tangible thing, but the truth is I was happier when I was ill. Being mentally healthier has only made me lonely and sad and just as detached from society but now more painfully aware of it.
Why should I take these pills, and conform to what is expected of me, and believe what all the quacks and adults and authorities tell me?
You are doing so well Melissa, showing wonderful potential for a promising bright future.
My future is no more brighter than my present, which is clouded in murky distrust of people, cloaked in despair of a society I don’t belong to and despondent in the acknowledgment that I just don’t connect with anyone in this fuck of a world.
Screw these pills. I’m done with sanity. I want my friends back.
3.1
It is the middle of the afternoon, in a shopping mall not too dissimilar to most others (leading walkways with teasingly lit shop fronts and a sarcastic sprinkling of faux foliage) and my head has just exploded.
I don't mean in a metaphorical sense. I am not describing how my nerves are shot and my anxiety has peaked and my headaches have throbbed until I needed to scream so loud for it to all stop, just stop, from a morning spent on the human battery farms that are tube trains and then dealing with spoilt rich-kid harp players.
I mean literally, my head has just exploded.
In the centre of the mall, passers-by stand in shock and little kids scream and everyone else, along with the fake plants and easy access rubbish bins and all those in-your-face signs and adverts, is covered by me.
They are all covered by my flesh, bones, cartilage, muscle tissue, teeth, eyeballs and millions of tiny fragments of brain; scattered far and wide.
My headless body lies in a slump on the bench that has become my final resting place. I wonder if they will put a sign here. In Memory of Melly.
Like an actress, who upon accepting her award reads out a garbled thank you list, thanking their parents, producers, directors, guild members, coaches, friends and the stupid public for elevating them to idol status and God-like worship, I feel the need to acknowledge some people. But my list is not a thank you list, it is a blame list.
‘Wow, I can't believe I won! I mean, wow!’
My head forms back together again as all the tiny fragments scuttle towards each other across the shiny floor and my flesh rebuilds itself over my skull. I catch my breath and swallow the lump in my newly reformed throat. The spotlights glare in my bloodshot eyes.
‘Well first I have to blame my family. Without them, I wouldn't be where I am today. And of course my old school bullies, you have been such a big influence on today, I blame you all so so much. I blame John Brockwell, and Henry Gissett, and of course dearest Samantha Holland. I mustn’t forget to blame my old high school teacher Mr Steer, you are deserving of so much blame, words cannot express! I blame my mother. I blame my father, I wish you were still here to see me today papa, you should take a lot of the blame for setting me on this path.’
And on I go.
But lets go back an hour, to when I first sat down on this bench.
One hour before my head explodes.
I sit down and survey the zombies stumbling into McDonald’s to stuff their face with junk, and others falling over themselves to rush to nowhere just in case they are late for nothing. Two zombies bump into each other and then carry on without so much as a snort in each other’s direction.
I promise myself I will never be one of those. But then I realise that I am sitting on a bench with other nine-to-five, five days a week, zombies. I have a Starbucks sandwich in my hand. They have Starbucks sandwiches in their hands. I am a goddamn zombie in training.
Thirty minutes before my head explodes.
I am unfolding a broadsheet newspaper. I find the overt, barefaced bullshitting of the tabloids distasteful. I prefer to have lies massaged into me with a fuller vocabulary and a sneakier manipulation strategy.
I read the front-page story. Osama Bin Laden has just been murdered, I mean killed, I mean caught, I mean made to receive justice. I remember 9/11 and all those people jumping from the burning inferno of the upper floors where the plane crashed through the twin towers. I remember the agonizing slow drop of the jumpers, as their bodies froze in time, helpless against the fall. They fell like rag dolls. Perhaps we’re all rag dolls. All falling. All falling for it.
Ten minutes before my head explodes.
I look around me, and I honestly feel completely removed from my environment and the people I am meant to share this world with. This morning I repeated finger arrangements over and over and over again to affluent kids, who have more expensive harps than I could ever afford. My mind hurts, I want the hurt to go away.
I pull a notepad and pen out of my bag, and start writing. A suicide note.
One minute before my head explodes.
I tap the breast of my thick, black coat to feel my gun; a Magnum revolver, tucked in the inside pocket. It is loaded and ready. Are all the zombies around me ready?
Ten seconds before my head explodes.
I place the pad, suicide note face up, next to me on the bench. I reach inside and wrap my hand around the handle of the Magnum.
Time to count down the rest of my life.
Five seconds remaining.
Now just Four.
Three seconds left.
Two.
One.
Zero.
My hand pulls out a tissue with which I blow my nose into.
The lunch break is over and I go back to work.
3.2
I throw my keys onto the kitchen counter, drop my bag and kick off my shoes. I rub my feet together, they ache. My body aches. I spot him and my aching body goes cold.
A man is sleeping across the sofa. He is topless and sporting thin pyjama bottoms. He’s a hottie. I haven’t had sex in ages so I guess it figures that my first creation since stopping the pills last night would be a sexual one.
I go about my business, eating another ready meal dinner and replying to my mother’s email trying my best not to wake him up. I’m doing my best impression of pretending this is normal, like it used to be, but inside I am feeling the butterflies go berserk. Should I wake him up and introduce myself? But he is my creation; it’s not like he won’t know who I am. I have forgotten the rules, the protocol.
I splash cold wa
ter over my face and my hair. Clear beads run down my cheeks, but they are not tears. I am feeling happy. Very happy. I feel like a schoolgirl with a crush, I’m excited and nervous and eager and scared. I catch my reflection; I’m smiling, the kind of smile that hurts your cheekbones if it goes on for too long.
After changing out of my zombie clothes, a smart skirt and white blouse, and into a long anime tee shirt that I adore sleeping in, I fix my hair a little but leave it slightly wet and stroll back into the lounge trying to appear relaxed, in case he is awake.
He isn’t awake. He is gone.
My chest sinks and my shoulders hunch forward. I feel like I’ve just been stood up, left waiting outside the cinema for the blind date that spotted me from afar and then snuck away.
I browse websites on everything from Penzai, the Chinese inspiration for Japanese Bonsai (those funky little trees that Mr Miyagi looked after in Karate Kid), to obscure song covers (which I love collecting). All the while I am willing him to return, to reappear. But he doesn’t and it gets later and later and eventually my yawns and tired eyes decide to crawl into bed defeated.
Time to chase some dreams.
3.3
I am snuggling my head into the full plump pillow and I remember an old friend (I am unsure if this one was real or not) who once said to me, ‘Dream chasing in red lipstick and smooching animals is a sure path to happiness.’
I may have to try it. Must remember to stop off tomorrow and buy some red lipstick, the puppy can wait.
I toss and turn in bed, unable to sleep with thoughts of my new guest taking up all available space in my mind. My eyes are shut, but my imagination is wide open, arms stretched and ready to completely embrace a new creation.
I roll over onto my side and the duvet twists. I turn onto my belly, and yank the duvet back; it flies off the bed onto the floor. I think back, did I leave the front door open? Perhaps there are cups and plates that need washing in the kitchen sink? Wait a minute, my mouth is really dry. That’s it, I need a glass of water!
The Haunted Hikikomori Page 7