Francesca
One
Francesca had been trying not to overthink it all.
Aaliyah had implored her, reassured her a hundred times, that this was an informal meeting. You could barely even call it an interview, she had insisted. Just be you and it will be fine, she had said, clutching her hand sympathetically. Ryan will just want to put a face to a name.
​
The darkness of her wardrobe stares back at her expectantly. Outside, a dim morning sky is spattering out rain inconsistently, and the rattle of it ebbs and swells against the half open window. London’s faint echo is barely audible over the wind, but it is there. Pulsing like a sleeping beast many miles south.
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She stands in the wreckage of a bedroom. Her duvet is coiled at the foot of her bed, stamped with the imprints of kicking feet, mangled in her battle with a sleepless night. A make-up bag lies half open by her pillow, its contents spewing across the sheet. Tinkerbell’s worn face stares up at her from the front of the bag, the weight of the brushes pushing her head into the bed. The tangled remnants of a hairdryer gazes up at her open-mouthed from the cream rug on the floor, its various attachments ripped off, discarded and forgotten. The head of a dust-covered vibrator peaks out from beneath the bed.
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She avoids the mirror as she stands there. She has only got as far as underwear, and even that decision has not filled her with confidence. Her bra is uncomfortable, the wire bends at awkward places. She is not used to wearing one, but felt as though she should. Her bust is wrenched up so violently she feels as though she’s in a corset, but she has no other clean ones. She decides to go with it, and just hope she has a shirt that can cover it.
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The clothes in her wardrobe loom over her. She brushes a hand thoughtfully over the various hangers, taking a moment with each one to imagine it on. To imagine her shaking a hand, sitting down, speaking of her experience, playing modest but not hiding her light, seeming friendly but not flirtatious, being receptive to critique but not a pushover. None of her outfits seem right, somehow. She had worked as a lawyer’s clerk before, but somehow nothing in her wardrobe strikes the right balance anymore. Her hands stop as they reach the right hand side of her wardrobe. The tips of her fingers find the hem of a skirt. She pulls it out and examines it. The feel of it tugs at a memory. Her eyes close.
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She is in darkness now. The pulse of music seems deafening inside her, but somehow also many miles away. She can feel the heat of his breath again. The tight grip of his hands. Fear engulfs her. And the memory of pain.
Then, as though scalded by a stove, she pulls back suddenly, her arms retreating to the safety of her stomach. She falls back on the bed, pulling her bare knees up to her chin and staring at the wardrobe as though it is a gateway to another world. She hears Aaliyah’s voice in her mind again.
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‘This is a new life, Frannie,’ Aaliyah’s voice coos in her mind. ‘You’ve got a chance to forget about all that. Put it all behind you and reinvent yourself. Don’t let all that define you, you know?’
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She reaches into the mouth of the wardrobe, grips the skirt and throws it at the window. The hanger clatters and is still. The skirt, short and frayed, hangs partially out of the half-open window. The frills tremor as the rainwater begins to soak it through.
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She finds a shirt. One she didn’t remember buying. She holds it up against the light. A clear blue, like a sky blue or, perhaps you’d call it baby blue. She likes it. It seems professional. It feels crisp. Respectable. She wonders where it came from. It was too large to be a woman’s. David would have had no need for a shirt like this. It could have been Aaron’s or Carl’s, but then, she was never quite sure what they had done for a living. Professionals of some breed or other. Aaron did something in IT, she thought. Or was that Neil?
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She puts it on and pulls the shirt against her figure. She takes a steadying breath and steps before the mirror. The shirt is nice. The curls of freshly blow-dried, jet black hair works nicely with the lightness of the shirt, and the blue matches the silvery blue of her eyes. She ignores the heaviness under them, the almost gauntness of her cheeks. Make up would sort it, she thinks. And besides, even normal people had tired looking faces sometimes.
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She pushes the shirt against her curves, trying to tuck the inevitable 'love-handles' into her pants, grimacing slightly. The fit of the shirt borders on frumpy, but perhaps that’s a good thing. Her CV would surely do the talking.
The problem with recovery was always the coping mechanisms. Hers was fast food, it seemed. The support worker she had been in touch with since leaving the clinic had assured her that it was natural for her body to form comfort attachments.
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“Just try to keep a healthy balance,” she had said, her voice sounding distant. “Some attachments can help with the withdrawal. Just try to keep yourself distracted.”
“I feel cravings again. Sometimes,” she had heard her own weak voice reply. “What if I’m not getting better?”
“Darling, that’s natural. If it’s fast food that distracts you, go with it. Get a burger. Have a burger a day if that helps. Just try to stay home, and only go out for exercise. None of the clubs or bars again. Don’t even risk a pub. You’ll get through it, honey. We’ve all been there.”
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She is pulled from her memory by a rapping of knuckles on the front door. She curses, darting around the room for something to cover her legs, but the room is a bomb site. She pulls the shirt down over her pants and makes for the stairs. A silhouette looms through the stained glass windows in her front door. She sees the outline of a baseball cap, and some kind of uniform. She glides down the stairs gracefully just as the man behind the front door finds the doorbell. It rings as she pulls the door open.
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‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Couldn’t find the…’ He looks her up and down, only for a moment. ‘Package?’
He holds out a small box. ‘Francesca Becker?’
She nods and takes the box. She sees him eye the confidential stamp, before handing her a small device. ‘Just a squiggle for me.’
She nods and takes the tiny plastic pen, tracing her initials on the dull screen a few times before the pen begins to work. He can’t be older than twenty. He is tall, lanky, with long dreadlocks coiled behind his head in a ponytail. She sees his eyes flick innocently along her body, to the bare legs that peak out from behind the door. She sees him check himself when she hands back the device.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he says, bashfully, ‘Big day?’
‘Job interview,’ she replies.
His eyebrows raise. ‘Wow. Great. Well, good luck. Sure you’ll be great. I’d hire you.’
She cannot pretend to ignore his eyes now. She can almost feel his hunger. Some part of her hears the music again. She thinks of him. The heat of his breath. The grip of his hands on her throat. She takes a deep breath.
‘That’s kind, thank you.’
‘Something science-y?’ She looks puzzled. The man gestures to the box. ‘Sorry – it said biohazard on the box. Thought they might be chemicals or something.’
She glances down at the box. ‘Oh. No. STI test kit.’
The man takes a step back. ‘Shit. Sorry. That was so… That was personal, I shouldn’t have-.’
Francesca smiles. ‘It’s fine. Just a check-up. I should-.’
‘Yeah, you should. Good luck and all.’
​
The door closes. Francesca walks into her living room. She sits slowly on the sofa and places the box beside her. When her grip loosens, her hands begin to tremble. She grips her knees tightly. She focuses hard on her breath.
In and out. In and out. I am at home. I am safe. I am in my living room. My TV is over there. My fan is humming softly. I can hear next doors television. I can feel the leather sofa on my legs. I can feel sweat on my palms. I can feel the …
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Her heart slows. It is probably only a few minutes that she waits to feel calm, but it feels longer. When the trembling stops, she picks up the package and opens it. A small plastic tray and a roll of cotton falls on her lap. Stuck to the lid of the box is a folded sheet of paper. She knows what it says, but she pulls it off and reads it anyway.
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1 dose: General management of symptoms.
2 doses: Upon onset of more noticeable symptoms.
3 doses: Severe, uncontrollable symptoms.
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Please be advised that doses are designed to run alongside general wellbeing and continuation of support workers advice. In the event of a relapse, please contact your assigned support worker.
The tray contains three needles suspended in the plastic. Next to each is a small bottle with a plastic cap. She pulls the plastic open and takes one needle out. On the table beside the sofa, sits a small strap beside an empty bottle of wine. She takes the strap and, with a practised hand, binds her arm tightly above the elbow. The veins take forever to rise up against her pale skin, but that’s nothing new. She takes the small plastic bottle and draws up the fluid in one continual motion, before drawing it out and flicking the blade to check for bubbles. She finds the vein and presses, marvelling at how little she even feels it anymore. She pulls the needle out and reaches back into the box for the roll of cotton. She dabs away a few drops, but nothing else comes out. It’s a far deeper red than before. It almost looks black.
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She feels suddenly heavy. Her weight pulls her back into the embrace of the sofa. Soon, she feels it. A deep sense of calm. Her mouth becomes clammy, the saliva drying away in an instant. Her jaw seems to stiffen and ache. Her heart had felt heavy before, each beat was cumbersome and slow, but now she feels more power behind it. Her head spins. A smile of relief creeps across her face.
She walks over to the closed blinds to where an old radio sits on the windowsill. She tunes it absent-mindedly to a radio station and smiles when she recognises a Duran Duran song.
Mine, immaculate dream made breath and skin
I've been waiting for you
Signed with a home tattoo
"Happy birthday to you" was created for you
The memory of the club and its dazzling lights, but there is no fear anymore. Only reckless longing and a deep uncontrollable lust. Her hips begin to sway.
Ah, it'll take a little time
Might take a little crime to come undone
Now we'll try to stay blind to the hope and fear outside
Hey child, stay wilder than the wind and blow me in to cry.
She smiles as she remembers the darkness and his hands. The memory of pain almost feels good. The thoughts of it seem like hazy vision. She no longer trembles when she remembers the screaming. Arms gripping. The violent lust. She sings.
Who do you need?
Who do you love?
When you come undone.