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Chapter One
Outside of My Self-Imposed Box
“Dearest Nicola, I decline your invitation to accompany you in your socialising endeavours.”
“Nicky, I’m really not up to leaving these four walls right now.”
“Please, just let me continue being a hermit.”
“I will cry at the drop of a hat.”
“People scare me.”
“The pain won’t go away.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“I’m not me.”
“Look, just back off, I’m begging you.”
These are just a few among hundreds of similar sentences that have escaped my lips recently. All of them are in protest, all in fear. I haven’t left my one bedroom, first floor, somewhat grotty apartment in exactly two months, six days and approximately five hours. I like to add up the hours. I was determined to win this battle, even though it might have been healthier for me to lose.
I didn’t want to leave my box, but Nicky had been ever so persuasive. She’d said, “Oh Tegan, come on, come on, come on, you haven’t come out clubbing with us in so long!” And then she’d repeated, and repeated, and repeated her plea until I’d decided that the banality of going out to one of the garish Goth clubs I used to frequent would probably be better than subjecting myself to one more second of her whining.
I allowed her to wash my greasy hair in the sink, wax my unshaven legs and dress me in a loose electric blue dress that came to just above my knees. Then she’d insisted I wear a pair of black boots and a tight black velvet blazer.
None of what I was wearing belonged to me. I’d thrown most of my indulgent clothing out after I lost Matthew. These past few weeks I have outgrown my urge to put an effort into being subversively fashionable. I’d wanted to scrape back to basics, cleanse my life somehow. Nicky tried to manipulate my hair into a back-combed do, choking me to death with hair spray.
I drew the line at make-up. I used to be really into the whole Goth thing, but I just don’t have the energy anymore. Besides, when you’ve discovered that the one and only person you ever loved hated the life they had with you so much that they’d decided to end it all, well, that’s when everything you’d thought was important starts to seem contrived, attention seeking and pointless.
Nicky drove her red and black Volkswagen beetle around the parts of the city I’d find familiar first, her car reminded me of a ladybird. I could tell she was doing this to ease me back into the world that existed outside of my apartment. It actually helped, seeing the places that were once a part of my everyday life. But it also provoked the hole in my heart to ache as I remembered that life. I’d never ever get it back. The thought made me feel emptier than ever before.
After a half hour of driving we went to pick up Nicky’s friends. They’re supposed to be my friends too, but they all seem so far away and alien to me right now. Nicky is the only one who ever came over to see how I was doing after the initial week of grieving. I guess one week is all this modern world allows us to suffer the loss of a life.
They get into the car and seem amazed to see me, like I’m some sort of long lost relative who they’d thought was dead. Dillon hugs me and scruffs my hair, while Amanda and Susan give me more tentative cuddles and kisses on either cheek. Jesus. I suppose I can’t blame them for not visiting me more, people do have jobs and lives of their own. The world can’t stop moving just because I have become a slightly less gruesome version of the living dead.
Five minutes later we pull into the car park of some new club called Crimson. Nicky hasn’t shut up about this place for the last fortnight. It’s always, “Oh Tegan, you would not believe how much fun I had at Crimson last night,” this, and “Oh my God, you should have heard the brilliant band who played at Crimson,” that. I’m sick and tired of hearing about the place to be honest. And God, as I’m entering the club I’m already sick and tired of the décor. A whole lot of black leather, black silk, black velvet and blood red lace. It looks like the set of a kinky fetish porn shoot. Any second now I’ll be approached by some man in a gimp mask with a whip. The mental image sends a horrible shiver down my spine.
Nicky goes up to the bar to order in the first round of drinks, while Amanda takes me by the hand and leads me to one of many booths centred around a massive dance floor. At the head of the dance floor is the DJ’s booth, where a girl with multi-coloured dreads is spinning the decks. My ears are currently being blasted with Rage Against the Machine.
Above the DJ booth are several steps leading up to a VIP section. Most of the people there are dressed in designer gear. There’s a man sitting at the head of one of the tables who seems to be attracting a lot of attention from those around him. Strangely though, he’s not really dressed for the occasion. He has on pale ripped jeans and a white crumply t-shirt. You’d think his designer clad friends would be looking down on him, but they’re all over him like a rash.
