Deep breath.....
Chapter One
It was bright. Squinting at the gap between the curtains, she couldn’t make out whether the brightness was caused by a brilliant early summer sun or, more likely she thought, just her eyes adjusting after… How long had she been asleep?
She closed her eyes again and screwed them up against the intrusion. Dreams are almost impossible to recapture once the frontal cortex has been jarred out of its subconscious state by daylight. Which is why she always kept the lights off at night. Just in case. Some people claimed that if you cleared your mind of everything then you could return to your dreams. That if you focused on nothing else, like some sort of self-hypnosis or delusion, then you could go right back to the same point in your dream from which you woke. Bullshit. If that was true then no-one would ever have bad dreams. Why would you, she thought, if you could choose for yourself? If you could direct your subconscious and take control of that part of you that’s so elusive people pay thousands of pounds in therapy just to uncover? Then wish they hadn’t.
Screwing up her face she forced her eyes to focus on the window once more. And this time she could see much more clearly. Funny how quickly our bodies adapt and what was before blinding light becomes simply the gentle morning sun. As if you were a dumb laboratory monkey recoiling from the painful light the scientist shines into your swollen, itchy eyes, only to realise moments later that you’ve been freed by well-meaning Guardian readers and you’re actually recoiling from the first sunlight you’ve ever encountered.
Sometimes, reality is better than you imagine it will be.
And that’s what Jenny’s reality was at that precise moment. When she saw that it was in fact a beautiful summer sun shining into her bedroom. Reality was better than she expected.
Coffee on the hob, croissants in the oven, newspaper on the table, all spread out ready to be consumed, absorbed, digested. To be discussed later with friends. Maybe in the pub which used to be such a shithole. “You’re not going there.” her boyfriend had said. He had been rather protective of her. Not in an overbearing way. She just needed someone to protect her from herself now and then. When everything was going well. You know, money in the bank, friends on the end of the phone, a good appraisal at work (or at least, not getting sacked); sometimes these situations had been a bit too much for Jenny to bear. Life wasn’t meant to be an episode of The Waltons and Jenny found it extremely disconcerting when it seemed like it was heading that way. The unnerving calm before the inevitable storm. Waiting for that storm to come was painful for Jenny. She much preferred to be in control of her own weather, to pre-empt the clouds and beat them to it. Shit on them before they shat on her, so to speak. So on such occasions she had a tendency to edge towards self-destruction. Not a total annihilation of her mortal soul. Jenny would never have had the courage to take action quite so drastic. More a gentle descent into solitude and isolation, pushing friends away by becoming that person who simply refuses to give a shit any more.
She’d done this a number of times during her life. The last time it took the form of being a complete bitch at work which got her into trouble with HR, but not with the boss himself who seemed to be coasting along under the misapprehension that this kind of ‘work hard play hard’ attitude was just what the office needed. Luckily. It was what she did outside of work that worried her the most (in hindsight, she always looked back on these episodes with an amount of regret and shame). She got great satisfaction from drinking her way out of her default status of conformist, nice, pretty little Jenny and into rebellious, uncompromising, hard-arse little Jenny. When she was in one of these dark places – and it was dark. Jenny didn’t want to feel like this, like having permanent PMT. Hating everyone and everything. Finding disgust in every aspect of her life, from the way the kettle took too long to boil in the morning, to the irritating fucking click-clack of oversized high heels on the tube platform. From the idiotic students in the pub, all chatting loudly about the pressure of finishing their meaningless little dissertations to the way her key stuck in the lock of her front door – when Jenny was in one of these dark places, she needed something to fire her anger, to harden not soften her emotions. The deep, oblivious pleasure of drinking to absolute excess blurred the world and the people around her and she could no longer be hurt by any of it. Rather, she was the perpetrator of dangerous deeds and she was not to be messed with. In truth of course, she was in fact so drunk at these moments that the slightest act of aggression towards her would be met with instant unconsciousness. And that was indeed a good thing.
It wasn’t always alcohol that best served her needs however. At other times she had simply retired to bed for a week or two, blocking out the world, the light, the noise, the people with the clever use of duvets, pillows and curtains. But her last episode of that kind was at least a year behind her. She’d not fallen into the darkness for a long time and she was now quite determined to overcome her ridiculous affliction.
The shithole of a pub had now been done up. Reclaimed furniture. Mis-matched pews and old wooden schoolchairs. Scuffed tables and 1970s floorlamps. Industrial radiators painted in bright pinks and turquoises contrasting cleverly with the Arts and Crafts print wallpaper and faded leather sofas that were too low and too far away from the table to actually be comfortable or seductive. Fuck it. Stop over-analysing everything, she thought, and just enjoy life for once. Everyone else somehow seemed to be able to get on with their shit and be happy so why couldn’t she?
The sun was shining and she had the day to herself. She was determined to make the most of it.
She picked up the paper and settled in her favourite chair. It was just right for reading in. The back was high enough to support her and it was positioned perfectly for her to reach her cup on the side table. She took her first sip of coffee, jolting her properly awake, and looked at the front page.
She was instantly propelled backwards as if she had been slapped in the face. No. Punched. In the stomach. Hard. Like her older brother used to do when they were kids. But this was a hundred times more powerful. She gasped for the air which had suddenly vanished from the room. Sucked out and away from her body, leaving her powerless and panting. The paper fell from her lap onto the floor. Face down. And her eyes followed it. The significance of what she had seen flooded her brain and overwhelmed her senses. And just as the air came rushing back into her desperate lungs, she passed out.
It wasn’t always alcohol that best served her needs however. At other times she had simply retired to bed for a week or two, blocking out the world, the light, the noise, the people with the clever use of duvets, pillows and curtains. But her last episode of that kind was at least a year behind her. She’d not fallen into the darkness for a long time and she was now quite determined to overcome her ridiculous affliction.
The shithole of a pub had now been done up. Reclaimed furniture. Mis-matched pews and old wooden schoolchairs. Scuffed tables and 1970s floorlamps. Industrial radiators painted in bright pinks and turquoises contrasting cleverly with the Arts and Crafts print wallpaper and faded leather sofas that were too low and too far away from the table to actually be comfortable or seductive. Fuck it. Stop over-analysing everything, she thought, and just enjoy life for once. Everyone else somehow seemed to be able to get on with their shit and be happy so why couldn’t she?
The sun was shining and she had the day to herself. She was determined to make the most of it.
She picked up the paper and settled in her favourite chair. It was just right for reading in. The back was high enough to support her and it was positioned perfectly for her to reach her cup on the side table. She took her first sip of coffee, jolting her properly awake, and looked at the front page.
She was instantly propelled backwards as if she had been slapped in the face. No. Punched. In the stomach. Hard. Like her older brother used to do when they were kids. But this was a hundred times more powerful. She gasped for the air which had suddenly vanished from the room. Sucked out and away from her body, leaving her powerless and panting. The paper fell from her lap onto the floor. Face down. And her eyes followed it. The significance of what she had seen flooded her brain and overwhelmed her senses. And just as the air came rushing back into her desperate lungs, she passed out.
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