I pull the fire escape door open, scoop my
eyeshadow palette off the ground and slip back inside. For a moment, I pause in
the corridor and catch my breath. Adrenaline is surging through me. Rage. A
normal woman would call the police at this point. But a normal woman would
never have been paranoid enough in the first place to pretend to go to the
toilet, only to sneak out of the fire escape and spy through a window to watch
what her date does when he has five minutes alone with her drink. Nope. A
normal woman would have gone to the loo, done a pee and topped up her lipstick.
Or she’d have texted a friend about her hot date, feeling giddy with hope and
excitement.
Now, let’s think about what would have happened
to a normal woman.
A normal woman would have headed back to her
date, smiling prettily, before sitting down and drinking her drugged drink.
Then, a short while later, that normal woman would have started feeling far
more drunk than she normally does after just a couple of drinks, but she’d
probably blame herself. She’d wonder if maybe she’d drunk too much. Or maybe
she’d blame herself for having not eaten earlier in the day because she didn’t
want to look fat in her dress. Or maybe she’d blame herself because that’s just
what she does; she blames herself. And then, just as she started to feel woozy
and a bit confused, her date would take her outside for some fresh air and
she’d be grateful to him. She’d think he was caring and responsible, when
really, he was just whisking her out of sight, before she started to look less
like she was drunk and more like she’d been drugged. And then the next thing
she’d know, she’d be staggering into the back of a cab and her date would be
asking her to tell the driver where she lived. And when she’d barely be able to
get the words out and her date made a joke to the driver about how drunk she
was, she’d feel small and embarrassed. And then she’d find herself slumping
into her date’s open arms, flopping against his big manly body, and she’d feel
grateful once more that this man was taking care of her and getting her home
safe.
And then, once the taxi slowed down and she
blinked her eyes open and found they’d pulled up outside her flat, she’d notice
in a fleeting moment of clarity that when the driver asked for the fare, her date
thrust two crisp ten-pound notes towards him in a weirdly premeditated move, as
though he’d known this moment was going to happen all along. As though he’d had
the cash lined up, the plan set, and she’d feel something. Something. But then
she’d be staggering out of the taxi, even sloppier than when she got in, and
her legs would be buckling, and she’d cling to her date for support, her
make-up now smudged, her eyes half-closed, her hair messy.
She’d look a state and he’d ask her which flat
was hers, and she’d walk with him to her front door, to the flat where she
lives alone. To the place that’s full of books and cute knick-knacks from
charity shops and colourful but inexpensive clothes. She’d unlock her front
door, her hand sliding drunkenly over the lock, and she’d lead him into the
place she’s been using as a base to try to get ahead in life, and then he’d
look around, keen-eyed, until he spotted her bedroom and he’d draw her in.
And then all of a sudden he’d be in her bedroom
and she wouldn’t be able to remember if she’d asked him back or not or quite
how this happened, and it would all be moving so fast and her thoughts would be
unable to keep up – they’d keep sliding away – and he’d be kissing her and
she’d be unsure what was happening as he pulled off her dress and she’d wonder,
did she ask for this? Does she want this? Has she been a ‘slut’ again? But the
thoughts would be weak, they’d keep falling away and he’d be confident and he’d
be certain and he’d be good-looking and he’d be pulling off her bra and taking
off her knickers. He’d be pushing himself inside her.
The next day, he’d be gone by the time she woke
up. She’d be blocked, unmatched, and she’d feel like such a state. She’d blame
herself. She’d hate herself. She’d feel like a mess. She wouldn’t want to leave
the house.
That normal woman used to be me. But I’m not
normal any more.
I’m better now. I’m much better.
Thanks for being on the tour! :)
ReplyDeleteSounds like a fun thriller.
ReplyDelete