WEDNESDAY

The buzzing of my phone frightens me awake. Somehow it got under my pillow in the night. I must have knocked it off the nightstand in my sleep.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey, I’m coming to pick you up in about an hour.’

Jaq sounds nervous. Shouldn’t he be practicing? There’s barely any time left before his concert, and he’s had to waste so much of the past couple of weeks on pointless parties and our fake relationship.

‘I don’t remember there being anything planned for today?’

‘Please just be ready to go.’

‘Okay boss.’

There’s a sharp intake of breath before he hangs up. Did that upset him? Surely not. I shake my head. At least when I was crammed in with a household of theatre nerds, the silliness was all in fun. Surprises weren’t dangerous.

Jaq’s… eccentricities… his lack of communication… none of that has really lead to much in the way of happy surprises for me.

And, he didn’t tell me the dress code.

I lethargically make my way to the shower. He’ll have to put up with whatever comes out of that closet first. I’m not in the right headspace to negotiate with him for vital information he doesn’t feel like being upfront about.

I’m still yawning by the time he texts me that he’s waiting for me to come down. I shuffle my feet into some loafers and walk out the door.

It's not that early - I stayed up later than I meant to. I was filled with a manic drive to sort and tidy that didn't let up until I'd decimated my belongings. What remains is only that which is most beloved, most useful, and most precious. I'll have to make a few trips to donate all the things I don't want anymore. There's so much of it.

I see Jaq through the lobby doors, waiting in his car just across from the hotel. I guess he must be impatient to get somewhere. I have to stop for the traffic to clear enough that I can cross. I hate this road. I especially hate that there’s no foot crossing.

He doesn’t even wait for me to get my seatbelt on properly before he starts to drive.

‘What’s the emergency?’

I try to analyse his expression. I think he’s somewhere between fury and terror. There’s a certain set to the eyebrows and a flush to his cheeks. He’s not responding.

‘Talk to me; I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.’

Still no reply. He’s in a grey-blue suit with a tie. It doesn’t look like he’s decided to go on an impromptu camping trip, so there’s that at least.

Not that he would.

Maybe another thing with his parents?

‘Sorry, Jo.’

Go on.

‘…I needed to get out of the house.’

And…

‘I’m…’

His knuckles are white. He’s clinging to the steering wheel like it’s the throat of someone that wronged him.

I’m not sure he’s going to be able to talk to me. Not anytime soon, at least.

I close my eyes and lean back in my seat.

I could be patient, let him seethe in silence… or I could try to distract him. If I distract him, he might calm down faster, and I might get some answers.

‘Tell me; how do you select the songs for a set?’

He glances at me, confused. I continue.

‘I mean, it probably depends on a lot of factors. Location, time of year, the crowd that is likely to show up… but is there anything deeper to it? You pick songs with history, or that tell a story, or follow a theme… or just songs you like?’

He looks annoyed, but he answers;

‘…I don’t know. Most of the time they’re chosen for me.’

‘Is that okay with you?’

He falls silent again.

‘Sorry, that was probably too personal.’

‘No, it’s fine.’

We sit as buildings flash past. We're a thousand miles apart, though we’re both encapsulated in this tiny glass and metal bubble.

I did my best. I don’t want to push too much more.

After a few minutes, the car slows. We pull over near a beach. Not many people out today – too cold. He doesn’t move to get out, so I stay put.

‘How would you choose songs?’ he asks.

Hm.

‘I suppose I’d want to tell a story. There’s not necessarily obvious text in music like yours… but any kind of music can carry you through an emotional journey. Maybe I’d tell a story about something I was going through at the time… or something I wanted to see happen in the future… and maybe my fear that it wouldn’t come to pass.’

Unsatisfied with the silence that floods back into the car, I keep talking.

‘Not everyone would get it. They might just hear nice tunes. Those that did hear a narrative wouldn’t necessarily build the same story in their heads… but that’s okay. People listening would make it their own. Pull the emotion in the music back through their own experience of the world. They would become co-creators via their interpretation.’

He smirks.

‘That’s a load of shit.’

Nope. I didn’t ask for this.

I'm trying to comfort him. His cruel tone is completely uncalled for.

‘They’re not the ones playing until the strings snap, their shoulders seize up, their elbows cramp, the nerves in their neck are crushed. They’re not the ones that have to play until their fingers stop working.’

I watch him as he speaks, still clamped onto the steering wheel. His face is sweaty. His breathing ragged. There's no more fear. Only rage is left.

The fear that escaped him skulks across the back seat, before sinking its claws into me.

‘I’m the one working, I’m the one fucking dying for their enjoyment.’

The fear sinks itself deeper, settling in around my skeleton.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

‘I’m the one who can’t fucking catch a single note of fucking recognition for all the fucking effort from fucking anyone.’

My bones are carved from fear, crystalline and black. I feel like they want to break out of my skin.

‘You think they get to be co-creators when they do nothing but listen to the pretty tunes etched into my brain with blood and pain?’

I recognise the panic a little too late. I clamp my hand around my wrist, forcing my nails into my skin. Extremes of physical sensation can help relieve the extremes of emotional distress, but no matter how hard I press, the mental pain of the irrational fear does not let go.

‘WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW, JO?’

I try to sink into the chair, to disappear.

I can leave.

I fling the car door open and release the seatbelt simultaneously.

I can’t feel anything below my knees, but somehow I run. Jaq shouts after me. I have no idea what he’s saying. I run, and run, and run, I feel like my chest cavity is entirely empty – one giant lung; the cold, dry air a stark contrast to the mess of agony and numbness. I dodge between buildings and through service roads, little lanes full of graffiti. All I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears. One leg buckles, and I fall, instinctively tucking my head in to roll. I can’t get up. Lying in brackish water in the middle of a dirty alley. My vision is a swirl of static, flashing lights against black. I smell decay.

I hear thumping in my ears, a tempest of deafening sound. I can hear glass shattering; shouting. I can almost feel the press of people surrounding me, jeering and taunting.

An echo of something long forgotten. Something carefully repressed.

Outside myself, now, I see myself cold and alone in the alley. I realise I probably had nothing to fear. Jaq wouldn't hurt me. He likely couldn't hurt me if he tried. He's not dangerous. Just broken. As broken as me.

My body remembered all the harm done to me by people before him; the emotional, instinctive parts of my brain heard the shouting, saw his expression, and calculated a high probability of violence. It didn't understand that he's not one of those people. Thus; My emotional brain removed me from the situation before the logical part of my brain was even able to comprehend it.

My powers of reason have caught up now. I know he's probably worried and confused about what happened.

I've been under so much pressure - I was stretched thin, but I was coping. I thought I had it under control. Then; this stupid little tantrum broke the floodgates.

I should have been able to withstand an outburst like that. I've been shouted at more times than I care to remember. Normally, I can keep all the hurt inside.

I gently lift myself out of the water. My dress is ruined.

I can't feel it yet, but my hands are scraped and bloody.

I crawl to a wall, grip the ancient frame of a grubby doorway as best I can, and drag myself upright. I don't feel completely real. Just cold. I don't think I've felt this cold since the time I lived in an abandoned storage shed tucked away at the back of a defunct construction site. That was years ago. Before I even went to uni.

I need to wash my wounds. I'll get an infection if I don't.

Then, I need to change my clothes.

Practical things that I can do.

I glance around the alley. I'm having a little trouble focusing on anything. It's all so hazy.

I think I left my bag in Jaq's car.

Fortunately, I find my phone in my coat pocket. I can at least pay for something clean to wear.

Leaning heavily on the wall, I make my way around to the front of the building. It's a shop of some kind. I'm beyond feeling shame at being seen like this; I need to wash my hands.

The doorbell jingles as I step up into the store. Warm air envelops me. A worried voice calls out;

‘Miss? Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?’

My vision swims, dazzled by the bright lights until I finally find focus on the worried face in front of me. Dark eyes peer into mine.

'Can I use your bathroom?'

'Of course! It's just over here!'

I'm led behind the counter, past a fryer, and into a tiny room with a sink. I marvel at the fact that I can't smell the hot oil. There's just... nothing.

'I'm going to go let my boss know you're in here. Sing out if you need anything.'

And with that, the dark-eyed man leaves me alone.

I approach the mirror above the sink. It's old - the silver backing is peeling off the glass around the edges, leaving leprous-looking dark spots creeping in towards the center.

I'm a mess.

I shrug off my coat and hang it on the back of the door. I can see I've skinned my elbows. I turn on the tap with some difficulty. Once my hands are under the water, I begin to feel the pain that was so blissfully absent before.

I wet a piece of paper towel and dab at my face. The muck comes away easily with warm water and soap. I think all the blood must have come from my hands. I don't seem to have any facial wounds.

The heels of both hands are grazed and raw, but only one hand has an actual cut. The gash is long, starting shallow and ending deep. It bleeds when I wash it. I may need stitches.

Gentle tapping at the door is accompanied by a worried female voice;

'Hello? Girl? I bring a first aid kit for you.'

I open the door. An older woman with greying hair holds out a bag with a red cross emblazoned across the front of it - once I take it, she produces a bundle of fabric she was holding under her other arm.

'I bring dry clothes too. Daniel says you need them.'

She drapes the bundle over the top of the first aid kit, then closes the door on me. I hear the man from earlier;

‘Take your time in there. We’re packing up for the day, so there aren’t any customers around right now.’

I suppose he's Daniel.

The bathroom is too small to comfortably change clothes. The floor is grimy and uneven; every tile is cracked. Every crack harbours thick black gunk in the groove where brooms and scrubbing brushes can't easily reach. I'm not sure I should put any of the things I'm holding on the ground. I rest them on the edge of the sink and hope that they don't fall.

I sit down on the toilet lid and try to pull off my dress. The water makes it heavy – it clings to my skin. I eventually find the zip and fumble with it. My fingers are too stiff for such a delicate task. After a short battle, I have it undone and shrug the soggy, torn, filthy mess onto the floor.

Mostly naked now, I see my scraped knees. I haven't cleaned them. I finally start to cry. The tears are fat and painful.

With the first aid kit open on my lap, I daub my cuts and scrapes with antiseptic. The smaller cuts are covered with sticking plasters. I don't want to ruin the borrowed tracksuit with my blood.

By the time I've cleaned myself up and changed clothes, I feel a tiredness that is all-encompassing. I close the first aid kit, gather my things, and shakily open the door.

I see the older woman sitting at a desk in the back room. She’s typing something into a spreadsheet. Daniel, the dark-eyed man, is there too. He's seated at a small table, doing something on his phone. He’s younger than her. I think there’s a family resemblance between them, but I’m not sure.

‘Um. Thank you.’

My voice is hoarse.

Both look up. The woman smiles, but her eyes show worry.

‘You looking much better. Hungry now?’

‘Thank you… I. Yeah. Yes, please.’

She gives the man a look, and he gets up. Crossing the little staffroom, he picks up a take-out bag.

'These are just leftovers from today. We can't sell them tomorrow, so eat as much as you want.'

I probe around in my coat's pockets looking for the phone.

'I can pay you for...'

The woman flaps a hand dismissively at me.

'No need to pay. Just take, ok?'

I know I shouldn't, but I feel ashamed. Their kindness shouldn't go unrewarded.

The man says;

‘Let me get my keys and I’ll take you home, or wherever you want to go.’

I nod, resting against the doorframe.

The car I’m taken to is tiny and dented. It’s been keyed more than a few times. The upholstery is shredded. Empty take-out containers are cleared off the passenger seat so I can sit. The door is closed for me.

‘What’s your address?’

I don’t know the hotel’s address. I don’t want to go there anyway. I give him my old home address. Hopefully, someone will be there to let me in.

It seems like I blink, and we arrive at my house. The man offers to walk me to the door. I’m still unsteady on my feet, so I accept. The door remains broken, but it swings open easily when I touch it. The hinges groan.

‘Jo?’

Suddenly Laurie is almost carrying me to the couch. He’s a barrage of questions, blurring into each other, thousands of tiny fists I can’t withstand. The dark-eyed man looks awkward. He places a bulging plastic bag just inside the front door.

‘This is your clothes. I’m just going to put it here.’

He turns to leave.

‘Wait - Thank you, Daniel?’

‘Yeah. No problem.’

‘How do I get... um. I didn't catch her name. How do I get her clothes back to her?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

He smiles awkwardly and is gone.

Laurie piles blankets and pillows around me. A mug of hot chocolate appears in my hands.

The best.

‘What happened? Or… don’t you wanna talk? I can stop asking.’

‘No… I…’

I run back over what happened in my mind. Can I say any of it? Jaq shouted at me, but he didn't do anything to hurt me. If I say that, it'll sound like I'm defending an abuser.

‘I think I had a panic attack.’

‘Must have been a bad one.’

‘Yeah…’

I push it out of my mind. Hot chocolate. Warm blankets. I'm safe at home.

When I finally check my phone, I discover that the screen is cracked, even through the screen protector. It still works, but it's no longer perfect and clean; completely without blemish. I feel a little disappointed. I haven't even had it for a month.

Now it looks like something I would own.

I start to cry again, and Laurie rushes over to hug me.

'Shh. You've been in the wars, duck. You're safe now.'

I'm too tired to cry properly, but the tears won't stop.

'I need to tell Jaq where I am...'

'There's no rush. It won't hurt him to wait an extra minute. Take your time to settle.'

I've been gone for days. I haven't spoken a single word to anyone but Casey since the break-in. I abandoned this place, and yet Laurie is still treating me like a cherished member of his family. He doesn't know I'm the reason for the break-in or the subsequent eviction.

I don't deserve this kindness.

I've been off, living in the lap of luxury. Galavanting with celebrities and wealthy beneficiaries. I'm a viper in this nest of blameless chicks.

I feebly try to push Laurie away, but he holds me tighter.

'It's okay, duckie. I'm here. Tell me what you need.'

I can't form words. I just cry.