Sitting on a plastic beer crate, I pull my legs tight to my chest. After sobbing in front of the mirror for a few minutes, I crept out of the bathroom, terrified about what I might find. Thankfully, I slipped into another empty room, although I’m unsure if this is a good thing or not.
I dread to think the type of person who lives in a place like this, yet at least they’d have answers.
Struggling to stay upright, I survey my grim surroundings: a dirty and dusty wooden floor; 1970s wallpaper, a mess of red and orange floral swirls; a lamp on the floor, not plugged in; a portrait of a black horse, propped up in the corner of the room; and this plastic beer crate I sit on. A pile of clothes also sits near the bathroom door: a red shirt, not mine; a pair of torn jeans, certainly not mine; and a pair of brown shoes at least two sizes too small.
I look at the latter for a few seconds, and force my feet inside, after realising how frozen I am. Each second seems endless as my body comes to terms with the cold. I recall the middle of the night freeze, crouched outside B’s house, but it doesn’t compare to this. Numb all over, my skin prickles and tingles, my toes, itchy and tender. I’m sure I should be in pain, but I wouldn’t call this pain, rather emptiness, as though this current worthless low point has sapped me of all life. I’m a shell. A disgusting creepy-crawly.
I stare at my bare feet through the loose laces of these tiny shoes. Where did they come from? Who do they belong to?
I need answers and to figure out where I am, but everything within me burns. If my outside aches with cold, my innards throb with whatever poison I consumed last night. This isn’t a drunken hangover. I know hangovers, and this isn’t one. Even after drinking an entire bottle of rum as a foolish sixteen year-old, I didn’t feel like this.
“You need to learn to pace yourself,” said my father, comforting me but also lecturing me all afternoon. “When you stumble home at four o’clock in the morning, and throw up in the fridge, you know you’ve had too much. Remember that, son.”
I did, too, always pacing myself better than Joey. I enjoy the drunken haze, but not the out of control frenzy. I hate waking up unable to remember the night before, but I’ve never woken up void of all memory. I need to know what happened, but maybe I don’t. Like B’s own dark underworld, some things are better left alone.
Taking a deep breath, I push myself up from the plastic crate and walk towards the window. Light screams through it, my retinas scorched by the bright, blurry whiteness. Each step shudders up my body, my stomach queasy and chest tight. Dizzy and light-headed, I cling to the windowsill as soon as I reach it.
A grey and dreary day stares back, as grim as my face. At this time of year, it’s difficult to guess the time of day. As soon as the sun rises, it remains the same tone until it drops again. Wherever I am sits beside a busy road, cars fly past from both directions; I only see streaks of colour as my eyes try and keep up. I’m not sure of my location exactly, but the red-bricked houses opposite me seem somewhat familiar.
I lean closer to the window and search further down the street, straining to find a recognisable building. Houses, cars, bushes and gardens, bus stops and traffic lights blot the landscape, which doesn’t look foreign to me, though I’m not sure why. I’ve probably been here for a party, but that doesn’t whittle down the possibilities. I lean further towards the window, and there it is: a yellow sign beside a red bus shelter.
I know where I am. I know where this is. I’ve walked this street numerous times before, hopping off that bus stop with Joey whilst we visit his friend, Jim. This isn’t Jim’s house, as he lives further down the street, but I know where I am. I know where this is, and in an instant my shoulders relax and my head quits throbbing.
Then the rumble and turmoil begin again, because, why am I here? Why am I in one of Leeds’ most notorious areas? Why the hell am I in some random squalor that sits on the same street as Jim’s?
I check my trouser pockets for change, desperate for a couple of pounds to escape this nightmare on the bus. Nothing.
I’m panting. I’m light-headed and on the verge of vomiting. I can’t do this. I want to curl up and die. I need to calm down. I need to breathe. I need to figure this out and leave this house. I need to…
“The phone box,” I whisper to myself. “By the side of the bus shelter. There is one, I’m sure there is.”