Clean

by Juno Dawson

  Just let me die.

  I writhe on the bed. I’m so hot. I’m melting. I’m wet. I peel the pyjamas off my skin. I try to pull the skin off too because I AM TOO HOT.

  I’m going to burst like a sausage. My skin’s going to split open and my bloated organs will slither out like eels.

  It hurts all over. It hurts on the inside. It hurts on the outside. My bones are calcified, gnarled and stiff, twisting my body into ugly shapes. I’m a gargoyle, knotted in salty bedsheets.

  My kidneys have their own throbbing heartbeat.

  There’s glass in my tubes, in my piss.

  I tumble off the bed and puke on the carpet. It comes in gushes and gushes until there’s nothing left and I’m dribbling Berocca-colour bile, dry heaving, retching. I’m turning myself inside out, boomerang-shaped. I can’t breathe. I don’t even notice the nurses enter my room and scrape me off the floor. They try to wipe my face, but I lash out with my elephant legs. They feel obese and swollen. ‘Get off me!’ Their touch hurts. I’m a cactus girl, everything prickles. I try to curl up into a foetal ball. ‘I need more pills . . .’

  ‘It’s not time yet,’ a black nurse says kindly, her face zooming in and out of focus. ‘In the morning, my lovely. We’ve just got to get you through the night. I can give you some ibuprofen for the pain.’

  ‘Fuck that!’ I start crying. ‘Please . . . please . . .’

  ‘Here, love. Sip some water.’ She brings a glass to my cracked lips and I take a little, only for my stomach to slap it right back up.

  I think it’s morning. Grey light bleeds in around the curtains. I’m frozen, cocooned in the duvet. I don’t remember if I slept at all. All I remember is hurting. It hurts so much. It feels like my bones are trying to hatch from under my flesh and make a run for it. My body doesn’t feel like mine, bent into a pretzel by giant hands.

  Boynurse Marcus comes in with a breakfast tray and my medication. ‘Morning. You should try to eat something if you can, and there’s a pot of tea too. It will make you feel better, I promise.’ There’s toast, pastries and granola, but the thought alone of food reminds me of vomiting.

  I drag myself off the bed, shuffling to the desk like a ninety-year-old woman, arthritic and hunched. I greedily snatch the tablet and gulp it down with some orange juice. I see that I have Marcus alone. ‘Can you get me another one? Dr Goldstein obviously hasn’t prescribed enough . . . I feel awful.’

  He nods sympathetically. ‘The first couple of days are the worst.’

  ‘So can I have another?’

  ‘No. Not until this lunchtime at the earliest.’ He checks his chart. ‘Yeah, you get another at one, Miss Volkov.’

  I sidle closer to him, but he pulls back. ‘Marcus, please, call me Lexi. I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our little secret!’ I try to look cute, but I don’t know if I can pull it off in crumpled pyjamas and with vomit breath.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t change prescriptions; I’m not a doctor.’

  ‘But you can get in the pharmacy, right?’ I figure he lives on the island. How much action can he get? I move closer. ‘Come on, Marky Mark . . . you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours . . .’ I stroke his bulging bicep.

  He rolls his eyes and backs towards the door. ‘Get some rest. I’ll be back with lunch.’

  ‘Whatever, you faggot.’ I throw the glass of orange juice at the closing door. It’s actually plastic so doesn’t even smash. Pulp dribbles down the wood.

  ‘If you want Kurt’s face in one piece, you’ll suck my dick.’

  ‘Fuck off, Steve.’

  ‘I’m not fucking about, Lexi. He owes me a lot of money.’

  I shook my head. Steve’s high-rise council flat, overlooking Chelsea Bridge from the poor side of the river, stank of skunk. It was last Christmas. A sad, wonky angel sat atop a threadbare tinsel tree. Steve’s mole eyes were squinty, pink-rimmed. ‘I just paid you everything he owed.’

  Steve grinned like a Great White at his massive goon bro. ‘So let’s call this interest.’

  ‘Then get Kurt to suck your dick.’ I held my Alexa in front of my body like a shield.

  ‘That shit would make me gay. I want you to do it.’

  ‘Steve, I’m not sucking your dick, so forget it.’

  ‘Well then, Kurt can forget having teeth.’ He gave his goon a nod. The hulk moved towards the door.

  ‘Wait,’ I said.

  The Suboxone kicks in and I drift off again. My body shakes and spasms. My arms and legs jerk around like I’m a puppet on invisible strings. I don’t understand how I can feel so awful. I don’t get it.

  I snooze until I feel something warm on my thighs.

  With wide-awake horror, I realise I’ve shit myself.

  I have literally shit the bed.

  With diarrhoea.

  It stinks the room out in seconds.

  I try to stand but slump down next to the bed.

  Not sure what else I can do, I reach up and press the call button. It takes everything I have. I’m face-down on the carpet when Marcus comes in with a young woman I’ve not seen yet. She helps me into the shower – I can hardly plant one foot in front of the other I’m so drowsy – and strips off my soiled pyjamas. The water feels like it’s shedding my skin off, but she holds me up under the jet.

  It’s so humiliating.

  I’m naked and covered in shit.

  I cry. I fold in on myself, crouching in the tub and rocking like mad people on bad teen soaps do.

  She envelops me in one of the plush white towels and steers me back into the suite. There are fresh sheets and a clean set of pyjamas waiting on the bed.

  I can’t sleep, I’m in too much pain. The ache is at the core of every bone. If I could dig them out I would. I’ve never had the bends, but I bet this is what it feels like, like I’m going to fucking snap.

  I’ve had it.

  There is a way, a really easy way, I could stop the pain.

  I’m getting out.

  I drag my carcass off the bed and go to the terrace doors. They’re locked but I tug and tug on the handle, trying to force them open. I start screaming, banging on the glass. Maybe someone will come and let me out. If I have to make a run for it and hide away on the ferry, I will.

  They can’t leave me like this. It’s torture. It’s a human rights violation. I need more fucking pills.

  I look around the room. The desk chair is too heavy for me to lift. My arms feel like stringy prosciutto, but I look for something else I could throw.

  The bowl of decorative pebbles. Yes.

  I grab a rock and hurl it at the sliding doors. It pings off without even making a scratch. I try again, pelting stone after stone at the window. How sodding thick is the glass? By the time the nurses come running in, I’ve crumpled to the floor, my energy sapped. As they try to restrain me, I start to lash out with the now empty bowl. ‘Let me out!’ I scream. ‘I’m going home! You can’t keep me here!’

  ‘Come on, Lexi, back to bed, please . . .’

  ‘Fuck off!’ I roll across the rug, ducking out of the nurse’s arms. I crawl into the corner and hide behind the thick drapes.

  ‘What’s going on?’ From my hiding place, I hear Dr Goldstein’s voice.

  I crawl out. ‘Please . . . I need more pills. Just a diazepam or something! It really hurts!’ I sob.

  ‘I did warn you it would,’ he says, crouching to be on my level.

  ‘I can’t do it!’ Snot dribbles down my chin. ‘I can’t do pain! I have a really low pain threshold!’

  He clutches both of my arms. ‘Lexi, you can do this. Please don’t give up.’

  ‘I won’t . . . I just need something to take the edge off . . . please. There are things . . . moving under my skin.’ I hold out my arms to show him where my skin is squirming and bubbling.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lexi, I’m not prepared to give you any further opiates. We have to wean you off or you’ll never get any better.’

  I throw myself back into the corner and sta
rt chewing on my wrist. If I hurt myself they have to let me out. This is such a good idea, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. I’ll get the lumps out myself.

  ‘Lexi, what are you doing?’

  I start scratching at myself with chipped silver fingernails, leaving red marks all up my arms. ‘Get me out of here or I’m going to kill myself. I swear I’ll do it. Who’s gonna come to your shitty clinic then?’

  ‘Lexi, are you going to calm down?’

  ‘Stop saying my name you patronising cunt!’

  He stands wearily and turns to Marcus. ‘I’ll have to sedate her. Then please take her to the Safe Room.’

  I don’t like the sound of that one little bit. Marcus and a newly arrived boynurse surround me. Between them they drag me up and pin my arms at my sides. I kick out with my legs but they just flail. Goldstein comes at me with another syringe. ‘No! No! Get off me!’ He efficiently slides the needle into the top of my arm. I gob right in his face. It trickles down his glasses and I feel something like glee. ‘Fat Jewish twat.’

  For the first time, I see him flinch. Good. He retracts the needle and the boynurses hustle me out of the room. I go floppy again, my neck can’t hold my head up, and they sweep me down the corridors, my toenails dragging across the carpet.

  They put me in a different room with grey slate tile floors, high rectangular windows and a less lavish (double) bed, albeit one nailed to the floor. If this is their version of a padded cell, they need to try harder. It’s not much different to a budget hotel room. There’s even a boxy en-suite in the corner. Hardly a punishment.

  I already feel woozy from whatever Goldstein gave me. They flop me onto the bed and I’m too tired to argue. I still ache all over, but I can’t fight any more. ‘Get the fuck off me,’ I say, mostly to make a point, but my speech is slurred like I’ve had a stroke or something. My slug tongue lolls around in my mouth.

  I let myself drown into sleep. Oh, it’s lovely. It’s the same as brown, it’s a hug.

  A hug . . . from a big bear.

  A big brown bear.

  A big cuddly brown bear.

  A big brown

  Bear.

  When I wake up, I’m FREEZING cold again. I pull the duvet around my body and nest all the way under the covers into the dark.

  It hits me. I’m trapped here. I’m in a luxury cage. No one is coming to help me. I’m a prisoner. Maybe it’s time to call Daddy, but what would he say? Dr Goldstein will tell him the truth . . . they’ve probably tested my piss or something. They’ll show him a junkie. Maybe for the first time ever, I don’t think I can flutter my lashes out of this one. What if Daddy sent me to live with Mummy in Cayman? I don’t think I could stand it.

  They’ll tell him I’m a heroin addict.

  My bones jangle like a windchime.

  I shudder.

  Maybe I am a heroin addict.

  When did that happen?

  Fuck my life.

  I put a pillow over my head. With any luck, I’ll just die.

  Night comes again and it’s worse. I dream Nikolai is eating Mummy and trying to shove bits of her flesh in my mouth. There are tiny, gerbil-sized naked human babies all over the floor of my room at the hotel and I keep treading on them. I dream that I wake up and feel better.

  I dream of Kurt. I dream of lazy Sunday mornings with room service. Eggs and soldiers, stacks of pancakes with bacon and maple syrup.

  I dream of Antonella; Antonella passing me notes in Latin. I dream about her laughing. The notes spell out what I did, all in elegant calligraphy.

  I dream of going to the bathroom, but wake up desperate for a pee and too cold to move.

  I press the call button. This time, an older man with a shaved head enters. He has tattooed arms and a beard. ‘You all right, love?’ He has a thick Scouse accent.

  ‘Please help me . . . I think I’m dying.’

  He chuckles but I’m too sick to be cross. ‘Aw, you’re not, pet, I swear to god. I seen this a million times. It’ll be better in the morning.’

  ‘Please . . . please call Nikolai and tell him I’m dying.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll leave a note for the morning nurse and how about you call him when it isn’t two in the morning?’

  ‘He’ll be up,’ I say, and a tear finds its way out. I want Nikolai. If I’m going to die, I want him to be here.

  He offers me a tablet. ‘Here, love, take this for the fever.’

  I do as I’m told. My hair is matted to my face in greasy knots. ‘Can you help me to the bathroom?’

  ‘That I can.’ He almost lifts me off the bed and carries me to the little shower room. Using the walls and sink I can manage. After I’ve been, I’m too tired to move so I just fall asleep on the loo.

  I wake in the morning and the pain is less. I feel solid. I feel . . . fluey, I guess, but at least I’m not human ramen and my kidneys aren’t on fire. I’m back in bed, but I don’t remember getting here. I wonder, honestly, if I dreamed the Scouse nurse. I figure someone must have scraped me off the toilet and put me back in bed.

  When the black lady nurse comes in with my breakfast, I realise to my surprise that I actually quite fancy a cup of tea. Yeah, I’m theoretically Russian, but I was born in London and there’s nothing like a cup of English Breakfast tea.

  ‘Morning, Lexi!’ she says brightly. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Awful.’ I drag myself upright.

  ‘You’re looking a bit brighter. You’ve got some colour in your cheeks.’

  I’m about to tell her to fuck off, but hold my tongue. My being here is not this woman’s fault. Her name badge says JOYCE.

  ‘I feel like I’m full of cold.’

  Joyce nods. ‘Totally normal. It’ll pass. You’re well on your way, love. Keep going.’ She hands me my medication and some water.

  ‘Is there tea?’ I ask.

  ‘There is. Do you want any cereal? Toast? You should try eat something.’

  ‘No. No thanks.’ The thought of food still turns my stomach.

  ‘Fair enough.’

  I sip my drink, and it’s everything, but the Suboxone soon makes me drowsy again. I put the cup on the built-in bedside shelf (no one is destroying that any time soon) and lay back down.

  I drift in and out of sleep for what feels like hours. Still running hot and cold but not to such extremes, thank god. I have strange dreams again. I can’t decide if they’re memories or not.

  I dream about being at my grandmother’s little flat in Highgate. Lace table cloths, tea sweetened with black cherries. Daddy brought her over from St Petersburg. She died when I was five, but I remember our visits. My dress was plaid with a frilly white collar. My hair, naturally blonde back then, was in little curly bunches.

  She had an open fire, which I was always entranced by. I sat with my baby dolls on the hearth listening to her stories. Baba Yaga, Vasilisa the Beautiful, Alenushka and Ivanushka. She spoke very little English, and I spoke hardly any Russian, but I understood enough to know I should be terrified of Baba Yaga.

  She used to braid my hair while I sat on her lap.

  I wonder what Babushka would think of me now. Lexi isn’t made of sugar and spice and all things nice any more. There’s a certain grim fascination in watching little girls ripen and spoil, isn’t there. Everything inside is gangrene and cigarette butts.

  Oh, I’ve been bad.

  I wasn’t always.

  I don’t think.

  I wake properly when there’s a knock at the door. ‘Lexi? Are you awake?’ It’s Dr Goldstein. He enters and I sit up. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Like shit.’

  ‘You look better than you did the last time I saw you.’

  I shrug, although it feels like a storm blew over in the night. I feel calm now. Sick, but calm. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  He looks a little taken aback. ‘For what?’

  Now I’m shocked. ‘For calling you a . . . you know. That’s like the worst thing I’ve ever sai
d.’ It actually isn’t by some margin, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  ‘One would hope so,’ he laughs a little, ruefully.

  ‘Like, my mum’s side of the family is Jewish, or at least Jew-ish . . . so I can’t believe I . . . I shouldn’t have said that.’

  He sits down on the chair by the bed. ‘Lexi, you and I haven’t really met yet. All I’ve met thus far is the addiction that lives inside your body. But I’m confident the real Lexi is still in there somewhere. There’s plenty of time for us to get acquainted. Until then, I won’t hold anything against you.’

  Therapyspeak. I’m fluent.

  Regardless, maybe he’s not so bad. We want different things, but I’m not convinced he’s evil. I don’t think he wants to hurt me. I say nothing.

  ‘Now,’ he says, his eyes on mine, ‘do we have to keep you here or can we trust you around decorative pebbles again?’

  Back in my suite (from which they have actually removed the decorative pebbles) I put the TV on and half doze, half watch re-runs of Friends on Comedy Central and Big Bang Theory on E4. This scheduling tells me it must be a weekend. God, how long have I been here? The days and nights are a blurry blob. I wish I were at home. Usually Nik and I slob out and watch this shit in our pyjamas and order room service.

  The Suite Life of Nik and Lexi.

  Utterly drained, I only move when I need the bathroom and even that is a massive undertaking. I’m saggier than a used condom. I stare up at the ceiling. For the first time I wonder what exactly I’ve done to my body. If I feel so wretched now, it probably wasn’t good. Was I running on drugs? It never really seemed that bad when I was high.

  My appetite starts to return and the sensation is alien. I can’t remember the last time I was properly ravenous. I usually just pick at nuts or have a yoghurt or something. I’ve survived on canapés for about a year. As evening drags in (E4 is now showing bloody Transformers 2), the gay Scouse nurse returns.

  ‘All right, sweetheart? You’re looking better.’