Those girls and nice guys who would notice a bruise on your knuckle , grab you by the wrist , look deep into your eyes and whisper , sincerely , ‘ Please don ’ t hurt yourself . For me .’
You met Elodie there , though . You sat together in lessons , an arranged friendship courtesy of a seating plan . She caught you one hot day with your arms out , a fresh slice out of your shoulder . She looked you up and down disapprovingly . Said : ‘ At least clean yourself up properly , for God ’ s sake .’ You couldn ’ t get enough of her after that . She patched you up every time . Her scolding was like a baptism , a view of yourself which was frighteningly close to the truth of the matter – it was never about you , and it was never really about dying . It was about experience , it was survival , it was the answer to the mystery of how to do so without inviting real consequence . *** You do two nights a week at a bar in the Village , just enough to cover your portion of the rent . Elodie ’ s a feeder , so you don ’ t worry about food – what would happen if you didn ’ t touch the stuff anyway ? Something to investigate , maybe ; would you die , die , and die again until you fed yourself up ? Or would you just limp along , one heartbeat a minute , a walking skeleton , you and your funny bones ?
You ’ re shit at your job , and you don ’ t go out after close with the others anymore . You don ’ t get invited , not since you ‘ fell ’ into the canal last Christmas and jumped violently back from hypothermia in the back of an ambulance . But they keep you on because they love Elodie . She makes it hard for anyone not to .
‘ I ’ ve got it ,’ she says excitedly when you walk through the door in the early hours of a Tuesday morning . She ’ s drinking red wine , cross-legged on the living room floor . Old Eastenders episodes on for background noise and a laptop to her side means she ’ s trying to finish the dissertation she failed to hand in last semester because of her gran dying – in her prime , at eighty-seven years of age – and has given up , awaiting your return . ‘ Can ’ t stop ,’ you reply tiredly . ‘ Need to finish off that fentanyl .’ ‘ Sure , but what if –’ she carries on as if you ’ d never spoken . You sigh , looking down at her grinning face , flush from the wine , eyes rheumy . Her soft hands stroke the cracked leather sofa cushion behind her . ‘ What if someone else kills you ?’ Surprised , you pause . Give it a think , then shrug . ‘ I don ’ t think so . That feels a bit sexy .’ Her smile drops , seems to slip clean off her and onto you instead . She studies you incredulously . ‘ You are joking ? What ’ s sexy about murder ?’
Loïs Bolton 23