A City Of Lonesome Living

I thought I knew what I was doing. I believed to resolve my problems would mean leaving them behind. Temporarily forgetting them to live in a place overflowing with culture. A place void of the people I once knew. 

My head teetered against the wall of the tube. Sunken brown eyes piercing reflections in the grubby window beside me. Parents huffed as their kids climbed over seats, playing ‘the floor is lava.’ Reminding me of my own infancy. The days spent with my brother and I pinching at my mum’s nerves, jumping atop of the couch cushions. Acting so loud and reckless even the dog would join in, ripping the fake leather of the seats. Nostalgia poisoning my blood. 

Near the family, two men slurred over warm bottles of beer. They argued over a recent football match but I doubt either of them understood the other. Just as my father always drunkenly misheard his best friend on Christmas day. The pair of them would slouch before the television arguing about whether the Wicked Witch of the West was secretly good or everlasting evil. The smell of beer always made me cringe. Only ever bringing back memories of my fathers alcoholism, but now it met my nose with guilt. Now all I smell is the unforgettable tension that followed my nasty words. Regret closed my throat. 

From behind me, I caught a glimpse of three girls hunched over designer shopping bags. One pulled out her phone to show her friends, all of them hurling giggles towards the other end of the tube. The three looked exhausted. My sisters and I would always be near sleep whenever we would finish up shopping. Some of us falling asleep in the car while the one driving blasted music in order to keep us awake. Hangers and makeup palettes would pollute car seats, evidence of our impatience to show off our buys. Sadness chewed my fingertips. 

To the side of the girls, a woman sat reading her book. Completely unbothered by the noise of overzealous kids or squealing teenagers. Glasses settled low on her nose, as she occasionally licked her thumb to turn the page. The book she read was something written from Fitzgerald; I wasn’t sure of the name. My mum and I would spend Sunday afternoons reading. Once we had finished our dinner, immediately our favourite books would near suffocate us. For an hour or two we would forget who we were, where we lived. Instead, within the comfortable silence of the living room, the pair of us rested with contentment. Longing scratched my eyelids. 

A young girl stood before me. Her caramel brown eyes drowned within violet tinged swollen flesh. The skin of scarlet lips looked raw to the eyes and stung with the touch of a fingertip. Pale cheeks were taut around her cheekbones, a concerning feature to spot. She whimpered beneath my gaze but couldn’t help her own wondering eyes across my miserable frame. Bones of shoulders unable to hide underneath the thick jacket, jeans balancing on hips as they would from a hanger, knees shaking with the weakened body weight. Unexpectedly, the train halted and the doors opened for more bystanders, the wallowing girl vanishing from my sight. Exhaustion scrambled my stomach. 

I had been in London for three months. After a family row, I had packed a bag and a new scene sounded all too tempting. It didn’t take long with my history of customer service to find a job in a hard-pressed restaurant, another part of my past I thought I wouldn’t have to revisit. I was deemed incorrect when my paintings were rejected by everyone in the city. Spending almost every night working extra hours just to afford my flat, and food. Fake smiling at groups of friends who come by and laugh, sing, cry and cheer in each others company. I serve lovers who refuse to allow the other to breathe before planting sloppy kisses along their cheeks. Bitterly, I would clear my throat with an attitude, breaking the lovers up to ease my own ache. During one shift, I’d imagined myself pinching a rich man’s wallet and escaping to a tropical island. Running away from another issue I created for myself. I got as far as the neighbouring table before I steered into another direction, far away from the man. Some mornings I gain enough energy to paint something I believe could be worth money but burn it in the kitchen sink when it fails to sell. Although I must admit, my skin has grown a lot thicker due to the several art critiques who spat belittlement towards me. At first, I had tried to not let the anti-climax of running away leave me sleepless. Pushing myself into believing what I had done was for the best, the best for me. I was too obstinate to see past my own nose, see how grim life of loneliness could be. Now, I cry once my flat door stutters to a close. Just a tiny waft of the stale milk in my refrigerator will send me wailing. My neighbour beating his wife in the early hours of the morning echoes throughout my flat, leaving me cringing beneath bedsheets. The morning of a day off, I dialled my mother's number. Prepared to beg for her to save me and erase the hurt that had formed within my chest. As fast as I had picked up the phone, I returned it to its place before she could answer. Before she could hear pleas of utter humiliation. I chose this for myself; I’m old enough now to make my own bed, soothe my own cries, advise myself through hardships. Yet, I’m unsure of how much more I can take. A breath of fresh air no longer calms the inner turmoil clawing at my brain. All it takes is a crack in my pride to send me flailing home, or to another city, seeking a home I refuse to accept.