Unless he’s too afraid to scream.
I run the tips of my fingers through the blood on his chest, and I draw a smiley face on his torso. I slap him again. He starts coughing, so I let him settle.
I open the mini bar, and take out several small bottles of vodka. These won’t do. I throw one at him, and it bounces off his skull and onto the bed. While it leaves a mean welt behind, it won’t shatter, so I sit on the end of the bed and drink it.
When I squint, he reminds me of my boy – the ribs, the young skin. But his hair is too light, and too straight. He’s too pale. He’s wrong. And he’ll be missed, and I don’t have bin bags, or a meat-cleaver.
I can barely stand. Another dig at his mangled nipple elicits a high-pitched, piggy squeal. I slip, and nearly take it off. I’m dizzy – the room whirls. I am extremely nauseous. I try to take a few pictures, but I can’t. Not now.
I stagger to the bathroom, leaving him in a puddle of his own tears and blood. I vomit into the sink. It lands with a splat. It’s fizzy and almost clear – I didn’t eat.
I slam the door and my knees hit the tiles of the bathroom with a thud. I vomit till I’m hacking and dry-heaving into the toilet, staring at myself in the water. My cheeks are streaked with mascara; there’s lipstick all over my face and sick in my hair.
I’ve looked better.
I pull myself up off the floor, and knock my phone into the sink. I wipe off the vomit and look through the photos.
They are perfect. Each one is completely hypnotic. They’re better for being on the phone, because it’s more naturalistic, less staged; I can carry them with me everywhere.
I grab the sink. I stare at myself in the mirror. I stare at her. I press my forehead to the glass, and kiss her, smearing lipstick everywhere, slipping my fingers between my lips and coming, even though I’m numb with the drink and those bumps I didn’t need but did any way.
The force of it makes me vomit again. I get to the toilet this time. I flush.
I crawl out of the bathroom. My scarf is on the floor, and the hotel door is wide open. He’s gone, and so are his clothes. There’s blood on the carpet and he forgot his cocaine.
I crawl on my hands and knees to kick the door shut, and crawl back to the bathroom. I force myself to vomit again. I stick my fingers down my throat till there’s absolutely nothing left to throw up, then I crawl into the shower, forgetting to take the pasties and my underwear off before I switch the water on. I scrub my hair with the hotel shampoo, and sip the spray, and throw up again.
I sit there until everything stops spinning. I need to eat.
I manage to dress, and comb my hair into a ponytail, and get all the makeup off my face. I look halfway presentable – no one would ever know. I can just about walk in a straight line. And I see familiar, comforting lights. The yellow glow of a twenty-four-hour McDonalds, the hard, white light of a Tesco.
Tesco calls to me. There’s a homeless man snoozing by the door, who I stop to assess for a moment. He is decent looking, I suppose, under the dirt and the straggly facial hair. I’m about to shake him awake when I spot the CCTV camera glaring at me from above.
I stand up straight and wave at the camera. I go into the Tesco and pick up bread, and crisps, and hummus, and croissants. I will regret having binged in the morning. I am delighted to see Eddie from Tesco, where he should be, behind the counter, smiling shyly, staring at my tits.
He’s so beautiful. Even with glass hanging out of his eye, he’s just adorable. I tell him, and he thanks me. He can’t sell me a bottle of vodka at this time of night, but he’ll give me cigarettes.
‘Aren’t you going to ID me?’
‘No?’
‘Cheeky cunt. You’re lucky you just got away with the wine bottle, really,’ I tell him.
‘What?’ The girl behind the counter blinks at me.
‘Ah. Never mind, babe. Thought you were someone else.’
Yo yo yo eddie frm tesvo
In. Lnd atm bt whe i get home we can fuck again if you promis nott to be a little bitch about it
;lol
I wake up in my clothes, on top of the sheets, in a pile of crumbs. I wake up because my phone is buzzing, insistently, by my head.
Hey babe, last night was wavey. Really intense. Sorry for bolting – i’m schizy af when Ive had a bump （or two! Started at the gallery lol） & i’m just not into knife play. Plus, I dont really bottom or sub or whatever I am very much a top.
Went to A&E to get stitches and they told me i didn’t need any lol felt like a right bellend! Appreciate you wanting to get a piece of me but watch what you’re doing with that little knife of yours ha ha ha!!! x
I really am sorry I broke your frame btw. I think i was just intimidated by this incredibly naughty older woman I wasn’t expecting to see ;）
Hope you have fun with my uncle tomorrow i know he’s into some really weird shit lol x
I actually make a few attempts at a reply: I literally wanted to kill you? I almost cut your nipples off? You went purple? What about any of that read as safe, sane or consensual?
I hope he doesn’t tell anyone. God, if he tells anyone he’ll be sorry I didn’t gut him. Older woman. Older woman. Call me that to my fucking face, you little bitch.
Lose this number. fuck off and die.
I block him, just in case.
I also have a bunch of texts from Sera, generally having a go at me for being ‘a cringey drunk bitch’。 They’re long, and rambling, and sweary, and don’t exactly read like the work of a sober person.
Chill out.
You’re acting like my fucking sponsor or something
Miserable posh cunt lmfao.
I look through the photos of Remy. They lack the same interest they held for me last night. They’re bad. They’re blurry. The white balance is off; they’re overexposed or underexposed or they’re too yellow in the ugly tungsten hotel lighting. I keep only two or three. Souvenirs, I guess. He’s also not as cute as he was last night.
I have more texts. There’s one from Eddie from Tesco where he calls me a fucking reptile and asks not to contact him again. I respond with a cheerful okey dokey, and it goes through, so he obviously hasn’t blocked my number.
Scrolling up, I see that after I texted him I did send him a few photos of Remy. Oops.
I look at the photos again, the ones I didn’t delete. I look at his purple face, his bloody chin and nipple, his swollen cheeks. I wonder what the fuck I have to do for people to recognise me as a threat, you know? It’s like… am I even doing this shit? Have I even fucking done anything?
Like, do I have to snap the wine bottle inside him to get him to stop sending me sad emails? Do I have to cut his nipple off for him to realise he should probably ring the police? Do I have to cave his head in with my camera, rather than hit him the once? Do I have to crash his car? Do I have to smash a glass over the head of every single man I come into contact with, just so I leave a fucking mark?
GLASS
I spend almost a full twenty-four hours in my hotel room. I watch telly, I eat crisps, I vomit, and I shower again. I hear bells, and glass shattering, and I hear the sound of my own teeth.
Sera apologises for being a bitch. I’m like, yeah. I remind her I don’t need her – I have private sales, and we do have galleries in the north. She just says she’s sorry again, like she’s so much bigger than me. Fuck her.