Chapter 35
Leo
Drowning myself didn’t work.
Clearly. Cos now I’m here. On this packed train, stood outside the bogs, in the middle bit between the carriages, surrounded by everyone on the fucking planet it seems, sweating my tits off.
And everything’s shaking. I can’t tell if it’s the train or me.
It’s too fucking hot and my brain feels like it’s been pulped, or put through a shredder, which is just as well, cos I can’t let it think about the last two weeks.
I don’t want to think. I don’t want to remember.
If I remember, I might throw up. Or die.
I could die. And I don’t want to die anymore.
I don’t I don’t I don’t.
Just need to block it out, till I get there. Just need to get there.
‘Scuse me, mate – watch it.’
‘Sorry, sorry.’
‘You’re banging into me.’
‘Sorry.’
Need to get there need to get there need to get there.
The snapshots keep coming. Pushing into my mangled mind, cutting through, flashing like strobes, burning, ingraining themselves into my pathetic neurons.
men, zip, dirty nails, slap, blister, gag, mask, mirror, clock, heartbeat in my neck, hands, men, vomit, couch, grass, hands, neck, blue, red, blood, blood, men, men, men—
Stop it.
Him. In the water.
No.
I hate myself I hate myself I need a fucking drink.
‘Fuck. Fuck.’
No.
No more no more no more.
I’m sweating. I am sweating so much. Feels like hot wax pouring over my skin.
Shadows are flickering. The withdrawals are coming.
I can feel them like poison emerging in my blood.
I just need to get there. When I get there, I can withdraw safe.
Two stops left. But I gotta sort myself out, and to do that I need to get into the toilet, but there is currently a child inside it with his mother.
He is bawling in a way that sounds like he is in deep pain.
Dunno what’s going on, but I understand it.
I fucking get it. I feel it in my bones.
I empathise. I do – we are the same, you and I, small child – but I need you to leave the bathroom now, so I can go in.
Not to piss. There’s no fluid left inside me.
I need to change. My clothes. My whole being.
Need to look presentable, or this isn’t gonna work.
And I really need it to work. I want it to. I do.
I do I do I do.
I can’t do it on my own though. I can’t. There’s someone who will help me.
My head. ‘Shit.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’
This guy looks so angry...
I’m twitching. I can feel it.
No more oblivion. There’s nothing in it. There’s nothing in it for me. I’ve got everything I need. It’s all in the Sainsbury’s bag on the floor between my legs.
It’s all here.
It’s all here.
‘It’s all here it’s all—’
‘Dude, are you insane?’
‘Sorry, really.’ I am. I am I am I am.
I look up. Every face on the carriage has got headphones, or they’re staring into phones.
Bored, but fine. I see no pain. None. I’d give anything to be any one of these fuckers.
Any single one of them. Just give me your shitty boring life, please.
Anything over this. It fucking hurts. The truth is fucking painful.
It’s fucking horrendous.
My instinct wants to take me from it. Which I admire, I do.
It’s kind, to want that. But it wants to be high forever.
It wants nothing more. It’s wired that way.
Itching to be out. Dying to be up, up where I can look down and see all these people are just bored fucking ants, fucking molecules, blobs, that mean nothing.
It wants to float above them all in a state of bliss and say, I’m better than you, all the way up here.
But it’s not bliss. Not anymore. Because now even the high hurts. It’s not working. It’s stopped.
They’re fucking right. The people in those groups.
Those stupid groups with their candles and circle of chairs.
Reality is the answer. I think that woman said it, in that film, Dune.
The one who knows everything. Fear is the mind-killer.
I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
When the fear is gone, there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
I suddenly picture myself as Timothée Chalamet with his electric-blue eyes, sobering up on a desert planet, becoming an omni-powerful god, standing at a podium being applauded by adoring disciples.
For a moment, it soothes me.
I dunno if I can do it. I dunno if I have what Timmy has. The strength.
I don’t know.
‘Fuck.’ I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die. Do other people do this? Repeat this shit to themselves over and over? I’ve nearly chewed my fucking fingernail clean off. The pain is good though. I need it. ‘Fuck.’
The man pulls a face. He’s disgusted. I know I stink. I know I look an absolute fucking state.
I want to live I want to live I want to live.
I turn away from him, keeping my head down, trying to shrink myself, staring at my feet, which have no shoes on them, just socks.
They are difficult to hide. And I’m only just noticing right now that they are very fucking dirty, and also very fucking wet.
I think it’s water. But it might be blood.
Not sure. All browny-red like rust. It’s hard to tell.
Nearly there.
I push myself into the wall, keeping the bag between my legs. My entire life in a Sainsbury’s bag. How poetic. Timothée Chalamet didn’t have to deal with this.
‘You all right, mate?’ Another man this time. Too close. Where are all these fucking men coming from? There’s nowhere to go.
‘Huh?’
He smells well nice though. Nice eyes. ‘You all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.’
‘You sure?’ He’s looking at my feet. My shoeless feet. ‘You don’t look great.’
‘I’m sure.’
I suddenly want to cry. I want to cry and put my head on his shoulder.
I want him to put his arm around me. To tell me: It’s all right.
I’m here. I’m gonna help you, lad. You’re so beautiful.
Under all that, you’re so lovely, I see it.
I do. Anyone who doesn’t see it is a fucking fool.
You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, then kiss me, in front of everyone.
And he doesn’t care, and I am filled with warmth and love and kindness. I need that. That’s all I need.
‘Mate – are you staring?’
‘Oh.’ Shit. ‘No. Nothing.’
I see his girlfriend next to him, holding his hand. She smirks, but looks concerned. Concerned that I will steal her source of warmth.
I smile. I think. I dunno. My teeth hurt. ‘Sorry.’
Snapshots.
hands, men, grit, salty sweat, needles—
Please fuck off please just fucking fuck off—Where’s my Lucozade bottle? Shit. I look at the man. ‘Have you seen my Lucozade bottle?’
‘Your what?’
‘It’s urgent.’ Fuck, fuck, fuck. ‘I need it. My Lucozade bottle. I fucking – I had it – it was right—’
‘The one in your hand, mate?’ Oh. It’s here. It’s in my hand. It’s here. Thank fuck. Alka-Seltzer’s in there. Must hydrate. Must. I swig. My face doesn’t feel like my own. Feels like its melting off me. ‘You good?’
‘I’m great. No worries. Thanks. Found it.’ I hold it up. Show him. ‘Just waiting for the toilet.’
‘Someone’s in it,’ his girlfriend says.
Yes, I fucking know.
I fucking know someone is in it.
I want to split my head open.
Two stops left. Nearly there. Nearly fucking there.
I’m ready.
I am.
She will be fine. She said she would help me. I can’t text her and tell her I’m coming because my phone is fucked. It shattered, along with my soul.
Maybe this is a bad idea. What if she doesn’t want to help anymore?
She might not.
But I’m running out of them. Ideas. They are becoming very fucking sparse. I can’t go back to Mo’s. Or the canal. Absolutely cannot. Not after what happened. The police will be crawling all over it soon.
Shit.
I feel like a helium balloon losing its gas.
Sad and withered. Everything’s been very fucking hazy recently.
I think at one point I was on a canal boat with a man named Paul, but I can’t be totally sure.
Got a lot of scratches. And I’m pretty sure my nose is broken.
Hurts like fuck. Dunno when or how that happened.
Annoying cos I can’t put the gak up it, so I’ve had to resort to rubbing it on my gums and shoving it up my—
‘Are you going in then or what?’ The man. I look up. The toilet door is open.
‘Sorry, yeah, sorry.’
The mum is pushing her way out into all the people, child in her arms, still crying. I want to do that. Cry like that. Absolutely let the hell out of me.
People make space. Move for her. I duck inside the toilet before anyone else can. Press the button to close the door. Press ‘lock’. I hear it click.
Silence.
Fuck, everything is turning.
Everything—
Fuck me.
I put the Sainsbury’s bag down on the floor, close the toilet seat and sit on it. I think the kid was sick. There’s sick on the floor and my shoeless feet are in it.
I get it. I understand.
It wasn’t my fault. What happened. It actually wasn’t.
I dunno what to do.
Get your shit together. That’s what you need to fucking do.
I stand up and start to strip. Pull off all my clothes.
T-shirt first, then jeans, boxers, socks.
I catch myself in the little mirror above the plastic sink.
My body looks like one of those Tim Burton characters.
Heroin chic. I try to pull my socks off but they stick to my feet.
I don’t wanna look but I have to. Toe nails broken.
Not too bad. Not too bad at all. Thought it would be worse, where I injected between them. No infection.
That’s good. That’s really good. I’m doing good.