You Should Have Known Better

Content Warning: This story contains themes of alcohol misuse, sexual boundary violation, self-harm, emotional abuse and intrusive thoughts.

I was breathless by the time I reached the top of the staircase onto the main road from the pub-slash-restaurant that I once again swore I would never visit again. My heart pounded—maybe from the nicotine, maybe from the drink, maybe from fear. I couldn’t tell. I looked behind me once more to check if I was being followed. Whatever happened, happened too fast, too soon and was too much. But, no—Josh had decided against following me. I gulped and pulled the entrance door open; the night smelt like urine, grease and bad choices. I was suddenly very aware that I was very alone, despite being surrounded by the hum of late evening traffic and other pedestrians.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear— Here we go again.

And I was back at it—doing the fortnightly or sometimes monthly walk of shame towards home as I have always done. My fingers reeked of cigarettes and tasted salty when I chewed on them; I guess we shared something packeted for dinner. The familiar gnawing feeling of shame and guilt started to grow like it always does after going out to drink alone. I have done it again, gone out looking for something and came home with a gaping wound instead. Definitely not what I was looking for.

And what did Josh even do? He put his hand on my thigh, sure, but did that warrant this reaction from me? Am I overreacting? But it felt so frightening, so wrong—why didn’t he let go?

But why did you even run away? Why did you have to ruin it— like you always do? What was wrong this time? Why does something always have to be wrong? Be frightening? I thought you liked him. He clearly liked you. So why? Why did you run? Why are you running?

Questions sloshed in my head alongside the pints I’d drank. I could feel my brain pulsating in my skull when I blinked. My self loathing and insecurities always got louder when I watered them with alcohol. People say that things only grow if you nurture them; well, I am doing a fantastic job of tending mine with my poor life choices. I stumbled towards the crossing at the top of the hill; pressing the button with my now very raw and bitten down finger—leaving a trail of my saliva on it. Sorry to everyone else who presses this after. This wasn’t the first time, and won’t be the last time. I seem to do this often— to myself and unfortunately, the world.

This is your fault for drinking so much. You drank yourself stupid and invited him to talk, so of course he thought you were interested. That you were easy.

What did you think he was going to do? What were you hoping that he would do? Ask if you were okay? Take pity on you? Or did you have some sort of fantasy about being swept off your feet?

The downhill walk proved to be difficult and I had to put utmost effort into not hurtling forward and falling onto my face. Cars and buses flew by as I staggered with only a thin patch of grass separating us. I eyed the dandelions and remembered how I used to blow on them when making wishes. Too bad I could not recall for the life of me what it was I used to wish for. What did younger me even used to want? A pony? A new bicycle? More books? For her friends to like her more? I shook my head, brushing her aside as I continued walking home. I didn’t want to think about her, she doesn’t need to or deserve to see what sort of person she grew up to be.

I fished my keys from my bag as quietly as I could at the front door; holding them tight in my fist to minimize the noise. Good, still sober enough to have retained all my sensibilities. The key turned in the lock reluctantly; resisting, keeping me out.

Stupid girl. Do you know what time it is? Do you have no shame? You are going to wake everyone up. If you want to be out so badly, stay out.

I pushed my way gently into the dark entrance, tottering as I removed my shoes. I wondered how many times I have snuck back into my own home like a thief. The first time was a mistake. The second could be considered a blunder perhaps, but without me knowing; these little escapades have become a habit. Ritualistic trysts with the devil himself.

I don’t know when this all started but I don’t know if I can stop. I don’t know why, but I keep repeating the same mistake over and over again. I have no idea what I am looking for or how I even got here? Just—what am I doing?

My head was still throbbing when I walked towards the soft light that emanated from the glazed kitchen door. Building control could never. The click from the door is always too loud and I paused, listening to the rest of the house for a stir. The kitchen tiles are cold, the chill seeping through my tights as I choke down endless glasses of water, hoping to chase the bad tastes and alcohol from my mouth. The chilled boiled water was sweet and plasticky, I questioned if it came from pouring boiling hot water into plastic containers. I made a mental note to maybe tell someone in the morning if they would still talk to me.

Do you really think they don’t know? You sneaking back in like a naughty teenager, stinking of cheap beer and bad habits. It will take more than a few glasses of water to flush all that stupidity out of your system. You are a disgrace; an outright embarrassment. But go on. Keep trying— see if anything good ever happens to you.

The refraction from the glass of the street light splays over the sink counter. It’s true—why do I keep doing this to myself? Why do I keep going out there? What am I even looking for? I told Josh I was hungry for conversation. To feel something. To talk to someone. Anyone. But was that really true? Or was I looking for something more? For affection? Validation? To be wanted? To be desired? Sharp words echo and play in my head, each one spiking a painful flash behind my eyes. I think it’s bed time. I clutched my bag, coat and all of me as tightly as possible, hoping that nothing would fall out as I made my way up to my bedroom. Everything threatened to jangle—as if I was covered in bells.

Roll up! Roll up! The clown is back in town! Don’t miss the chance to see her!

The landing was lit from the obscured bathroom window, light pooled in little ripples across the floor. I stood there, drunkenly admiring the patterns on the carpet while I listened to the snoring from my parents’ bedroom. The usual thunderous and whiney inhale is followed by the grumbling exhale from Daddy; relief washes over me as I hear this familiar torment. As loud and disturbing as the snoring was, I was glad he wasn’t awake and waiting for me. I wondered if Mummy was awake, listening for me as I am for her— the silent assassin who will cut me in the morning.

I caught sight of myself in the large mirror; a dishevelled mess with half her make up running down her face. I felt hot and greasy, and something resembling a dreadlock had begun to form at the nape of my neck, matted and uncontrollable. I contemplated for a moment about all the other women who would have come home like this before letting out a defeated chuckle.

Do you really think there is anyone else as stupid as you? Hm? Putting themselves out there to be repeatedly assaulted and hurt? Really? No, no one is that stupid. You never learn. Or worse, you don’t want to learn. You’ve not learnt a single thing after all that has happened to you.

I ran a dirty finger under my eye, trying to wipe away the melting mascara only to smear it further. Whatever was on my finger stung my eye and fresh tears brimmed to the surface. Good, good, good. What’s the use? Truly—a disgusting and laughable little clown. A joke, even to myself.

Oh just look at yourself; you drink and drink and drink your problems away and now, they have all come back to haunt you. And here you thought— you would find all your answers at the bottom of the bottle.

Pathetic.

I dropped everything the moment I entered my room; I wished I had been more careful when my glass water bottle hit the floorboards with a loud thud. The familiar smell of dust and sprayed perfume lingered in the air —mingling with the darkness. I doubted that I still smelt of whatever I had put on this morning, if anything I am sure it had been replaced by something sour and unnameable.

Yes. Be louder. WAKE EVERYONE UP, why don’t you?

I stripped down in the bathroom without turning the light on; the harsh white glow from the street lights glares in with judgement. I missed the warmth of the orange sodium glow, or maybe the pretence of it during these sadder nights. Catching myself in the bathroom mirror, I turned away quickly—I didn’t want to know nor remember what I had become. As I turned the faucet on, the ancient boiler belts out a terrible roar that gives me away. A town crier of my shame.

SHE IS HOME! THE SINNER IS HOME!

Experience has told me that everyone in the house is now awake but I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. I wanted to, no, needed to wash the day away. Wash the stench, his grasp—everything. I needed to wash everything away. I needed to be clean, clean from him, from my mistakes and from whatever I was doing.

Yes yes, maybe if you bleached your skin hard enough, you’ll forget all about tonight.

The water was far too hot. I flinched a little when I stepped into the shower, but I relished the burns, finding comfort in the scalding water. When I had been fully baptised by the cascading lava, I turned it off to start shampooing. I lathered the soap into my hair until it was as stiff as a meringue, pulling it all up to give myself a mohawk. I caught sight of myself on the faucet handle, distorted and childish. Idiot girl must still be drunk, showering in the dark with a fake mohawk after some guy grabbed her in the pub.

How fitting, a clown’s crown. This is why you never learn and why, you will never learn.

I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed in the darkness until my skin was red and raw. Trying to remove every trace of tonight— of myself and of my idiocy— as I do every time I’ve done this. My nails dug into my scalp and skin, trying to claw away at the lingering smells of cigarettes, of debauchery, of him when he leaned in.

The hot water never quite felt hot enough.

You can scrub all you like but you will never be able to wash the filth away—not your mistakes, not his touch and definitely not your own guilt. Because deep down you know, don’t you?

You should have known better.

My skin itched in the cold air when I opened the shower doors; water, shame and guilt dripping from my head to toe. You’re right, I should have known better than to look, should have known better than to drink that much, to talk to strangers. But I was so so so hungry. So hungry for—. And I stopped myself, unable to finish the rest of that thought as I reached to wrap myself in a towel that had always been too small and too thin to be of any real use.

Oh that’s right—you were starving, weren’t you? For conversation. To feel something. To laugh.

Well, look who’s got the last laugh.

I shuddered at my own thoughts when I started brushing my teeth, hoping to remove the taste of ghastly beer and inhaled cancer from my mouth. When I spit, the white foam is laced with dark threads, my gums wept and bled as I self-flaggelated with my toothbrush.

Pathetic.

My oversized nightshirt was garish and comical; yellow, with the Sriracha label printed on it, stained and bleached by all sorts: tea, coffee, toothpaste. What had once been a humorous shirt was now a metaphor for my life: faded and rumpled, with all my little disasters splattered across it. I dressed silently and sat down on the bed, armed now with a hairbrush and a temperamental hairdryer in front of the mirror.

Better make myself normal for tomorrow. No one needs to know. Not really.

My fingers worked relentlessly, tirelessly, as I tried to pick apart the tangle at the back of my head and dry my hair before bed. Handfuls of my hair ended up in my fingers, in my hairbrush and, on the bed. I tried to detangle myself—make it smooth, make it make sense, make it go away. There was still an underlying smell of smoke and self disgust clinging beneath the soap and leave-in conditioner under my chewed up finger nails. Tomorrow, I thought, tomorrow I will wash my hands again.

By the time I crawled under the covers, I was thoroughly defeated. I reached for the stale water bottle at my bedside and took a swig. Nothing quite like 2 weeks old Evian water. I remembered doing this approximately a fortnight ago and pulled the covers a little tighter around me. Tears welled unexpectedly to my eyes again, as suddenly as the wave of loneliness. Why was I crying?

Oh, enough with the tears and the self pity— you are pathetic enough without it.

I spluttered a laugh as the tears continued to fall. It’s true, what right did I have to cry? After all, didn’t I put myself in that situation? Didn’t I bring this on myself? So what right did I have to cry? I am a walking disaster and always have been—what difference is crying going to make?

In the comforts of my own bed and in the dark, I tried to piece together the evening as I burrowed myself deeper into my covers. I really did want to like Josh, I enjoyed our conversation and the hours we had spent together. I regret not getting his number, souring the evening as I ran away. But he frightened me! He shouldn’t have put his hands on me when I asked him not to!

But here I was, crying over a man who saw me only as… What did he even see me as? I never found out. All I knew was— I was crying over a man who didn’t care for what I wanted, who didn’t want my affection but wanted to take it.

Someone who didn’t even want to wait long enough for me to say yes.

My pillow was now damp from my tears and my poorly dried hair. As my tears rolled silently, I whispered my promises to the dark: I will not go out drinking alone like that again. I will stop drinking alone after work. I will stop drinking after work. I will stop drinking. I will not talk to strangers. I will not talk to just anyone. Never again. But even as I said them, that old familiar ache wrapped itself around me.

Oh but, you will. You always do. You always will.

The last thought in my head before I finally drifted off to sleep was: I know, and— I don’t know how to fix this.