A Fucked Up Life in Books (8 page)

I went in and told him what was wrong with me. Up until this point in my life, all of my visits to the doctor had been with either my Mum or my Dad, and so I was not used to being in a room alone with a doctor, and trying to tell them what hurt.

But I did try. I told him that my throat hurt, my head hurt, my stomach hurt, I felt like I was going to die, and I can’t sleep because my throat felt like it was trying to close up and murder me.

He was one of those cunts who hears but doesn’t listen. The first thing he did after I’d described all my woes was to ask how my Mum was doing. I don’t know, I told him, she’s a twat. He did a little cough. He did not look in my mouth or touch the Satsuma-sized glands in my neck, but instead told me that I had a throat infection, prescribed me antibiotics and sent me on my way, telling me to drink lots of fruit juice because it would make me ‘feel better’.

At home and on doctor’s orders, Dad fetched me plenty of juice and ran around after me while in between sleeping and whining I was reading
The Princess Bride
, telling Dad how it was different from the film. I took my antibiotics for three days before my hands started to feel very peculiar. On day four the skin started to peel from the palms of my hands and soles of my feet.

I don’t know if anything similar has ever happened to you, but it is very fucking unnerving to be reading a book and having bits of your own hand peel off and stick to the pages. I went back to the doctor. A different one this time who looked in my mouth and felt my glands and gasped when I told him what I’d been prescribed. It was only then that I was told it was probably glandular fever, throw the fruit juice and antibiotics away and go and have a blood test.

I had my blood test and stayed at home and missed a lot of uni. The skin started to heal on my hands and feet and after a while I stopped making plans to murder the GP who had nearly killed me.

He still works at the practice though, a big fat cunt who wears tweed and goes hunting, he’s a fucking delight. If you’re from where I’m from you’ll probably know him, so if you get the chance, do pop in and tell him he’s an arsehole from me. Ta.

The above is the the only piece of text that I have ever read whilst someone is having sex with me.

I was seeing a boy for a period of time whilst at university. He came to visit and I’m not sure exactly how we got there, but we ended up having sex with my head within reading distance of the book I had thrown on the floor, which happened to be
Howards End
.

Now, I did not
try
to read the book. It was just there. As the sex was going on for some time longer than usual I was beginning to get a bit bored. I was used to 30 seconds at the best with this boy. Maybe it was my head turned to the side, clearly engrossed in the blurb of this book that helped him carry on for those all-important extra few seconds.

Needless to say, this boy wasn’t particularly special or important to me. I told my friends and couldn’t play a game of ‘I have never’ without one of them announcing on their turn: ‘I have NEVER read ANY PART of a BOOK whilst having sex.’ And I would duly finish my wine.

If you find yourself on your back, your vagina full(ish) of penis and you’re looking for something to do – not necessarily to distract you, just to fucking excite you for a few seconds – I would highly recommend having a book nearby, and afterwards sacking off whoever has just penetrated you and settling down with the book instead.

The last house that I lived in while I was studying at university had four floors. The kitchen was in the basement, and when I had a day free I would go downstairs, make a huge pot of coffee, sit at the table and chairs that we had down there and read my book.

I liked sitting in the kitchen. It was less lonely that locking myself in my room, and I did not have to go far to make some toast, or refill my coffee. I could also smoke down there, in a little nook by the window, which is where I liked to sit.

After finishing the last few pages of
Wizard’s First Rule
, I quickly moved on to the next book in the series,
Stone of Tears
. I loved being downstairs in the kitchen, about to begin reading a huge book, knowing that all I had to do all day was read. It was fucking glorious.

I lived with three other people. They were all pretty used to finding me sat in the kitchen reading and drinking coffee. Once or twice, one of the boys would join me. He’d sit reading comics and I’d sit reading fantasy epics.

On this day, though, everyone had already left the house before I’d got to the kitchen.

I must’ve sat there for about four hours reading, interrupted only by a couple of piss-breaks when I heard the front door go and someone stomping into the lounge above my head. I could hear the voices of the girl that I lived with and her boyfriend. The door down to the kitchen was propped open, and so I could hear the conversation that was happening.

Her: ‘I’m sick of her, I’m so fucking sick of her. I can’t believe you kissed her.’

Him: ‘That was a long time ago, I don’t fancy her.’

Now, I’d got off with this lad about a year before he started seeing this girl. Were they talking about me?

Her: ‘You do fancy her, I can tell. I can tell you want to fuck her, I’m not stupid. I’M NOT FUCKING STUPID. I see you looking at her. What the fuck do you like about her anyway? Her tits? HER FUCKING TITS? I’m sick of it. Fuck her if you want. Go on, go and fuck her. She’s probably up there now reading some fucking shit about fucking dragons or dinosaurs or WHATEVER THE FUCK IT IS THAT SHE FUCKING READS.’

Yep, they were talking about me.

Him: ‘I don’t fancy her. I kissed her once.’

Her: ‘You
did
fancy her though, didn’t you?’

Him: ‘…’

Her: ‘I fucking knew it! I FUCKING KNEW IT. I FUCKING HATE HER AND I FUCKING HATE YOU. Go and fuck her, GO ON. I DON’T CARE ANYMORE. I. DON’T. CARE’.

Jesus Christ, this was all a bit much. Should I go upstairs? If I made a noise where I was they would both hear me and know I’d heard their whole conversation. If I was quiet then maybe they’d go away and I could ever-so-quietly sneak up to my bedroom and lock myself in there. The problem was that I’d just finished my third cup of coffee and I needed to piss desperately. I would just have to sit still for a while and see what happens.

Her: ‘I feel like I’m always having to compete with her. Everyone likes her better, I’m new to the group. I don’t know what they see in her, they’re all like ‘oh, she’s SO funny!’ but I don’t see it. She’s not funny, she’s not even fucking interesting. How could anyone be fucking interested in her?’

Fucking bitch!

Him: She’s a nice girl.

Her: She’s not a nice girl, she’s a cunt!

I’ll let her have that one.

Him: She’s alright, I don’t want her though, I want you.

Her: *inaudible mumbling*

Him: *inaudible mumbling*

Were they going to fuck? I hoped not, I didn’t need to hear that.

I needed a piss very badly now. I had to get out of there. I looked at the empty Coke bottles by the bin. Could I very quietly piss in one of those? Probably not.

I’d have to go out of the window. The window led into a kind of concrete hole thing that if I clambered out of I could then run round to the front of the house, let myself in and run upstairs to piss and then hide. Perfect.

Trying to climb out of a tiny window without pissing yourself and without making a sound is no easy feat, but being an absolute fucking legend, I managed it pretty painlessly.

I ran round to the front of the house. Guess what I didn’t have? Keys.

I rang the bell.

The girl answered the door.

‘Helllooooo,’ I cooed as I dashed past her. I was going to fucking piss myself.

Her: ‘Why aren’t you wearing any shoes?’

Me: ‘Byeeeeeee.’

I didn’t go downstairs again that day. Later in the day the girl’s boyfriend knocked on my door and handed me
Stone of Tears
.

‘You forgot this.’

If there is one day of the year that fills me with dread, it is Mother’s Day. I don’t speak to my Mum, so Mother’s Day is not such a big deal for me. While friends are organising a nice dinner, searching for the perfect greetings card and buying flowers and cake, I usually just toy with whether or not to send my Mum a card as a part of ‘damage control’ plan, or whether to just leave it and see what happens. Sometimes she says nothing. Sometimes she is, frankly, a nasty and manipulative cunt.

I spent quite a few years looking after my Mum. Not because she was an invalid, but because she was an idiot. I don’t feel like I should do that anymore, and so I don’t.

But I used to go to her house, look through the cupboards, make a list and go shopping, tidy up, clean the kitchen and hoover everywhere, take the many empty wine bottles to the recycling bins, and let her get on with drinking, or working, or seeing her friends.

I never lived with her after she left. One day I walked round to her house, as usual. I got my key out and opened the door and shouted for her. A woman that I’d never seen before came out of the living room and introduced herself to me. Halfway through her introduction my Mum came stumbling into the hallway after her, telling me that this was her friend. Her
best
friend.

‘How long have you known each other?’ I asked.

‘A week,' they answered.

The offered me some wine. I declined. They offered me a cigarette. I declined. They both went back into the living room and sat down on the one sofa that my Mum has in her house. I went into the kitchen to unpack the shopping I’d brought round and to start making Mum (and now her friend, too) some lunch. If I didn’t go round and put food on a table in front of her she’d just forget to eat.

As I was preparing lunch, I could hear their conversation.

Mum’s friend: ‘I fucking hate him, I hate him so much. How dare he say I have a problem?’

Mum: ‘If he comes round here I’ll tell him where to go.’

Friend: ‘I know you will, I know you will. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t picked me up. That cell they had me in was horrible. Have you been in one? Horrible.’

I stopped what I was doing and went into the other room. Through clouds of smoke they were both sat there. I asked the Friend again who she was, and why she was there. My Mum answered,

‘Her fucking husband beat her up. The fucking prick. And then he rang the police and they chucked her in a cell and I had to go and fetch her. The fucking cunts.’

I went back into the kitchen, brought food through and put it in front of them both. They ate it. I went upstairs and began to read a book, a book that Mum had bought me a couple of years back,
Wild Swans
. She was drunk when she gave me it and muttered some guff about family and women and love and a lot of other things that I have, over the years, learned to almost completely block my brain from taking in as the words fall from her mouth.

So I sat upstairs reading, waiting until I had to do something else which would probably be either help Mum to bed because she’d drank too much, or kick this woman out. I assumed it would be the latter.

I must’ve been up there about half an hour there was a knock at the door. As soon as the knock sounded both Mum and her Friend started screaming to me: ‘Did you lock the door, did you lock the FUCKING DOOR?’

I went downstairs. Of course I’d locked the door. Mum had this habit of wandering off, so I’d always lock her in when I was there. I turned to see that they had shut the door through to the living room and were now waiting, silently. I opened the door. A rather large man was stood there.

Man: ‘Is ___ here?’

Me: ‘Are you ___?’

Man: ‘Yes’

Me: ‘I’m ___, ___’s daughter. ___ is here, but I’m not letting you in because this is my Mum’s house, so you’ll have to leave.’

The man looked sad. He didn’t argue with me, he didn’t try to push past me. He just said, ‘I didn’t hit her.’

I closed and locked the door. As soon as they heard me put the chain on they both sprang from the living room.

‘That fucking prick, I can’t believe he came here, what the fuck am I doing to do? How does he know where I am?’

I took them both into the living room, and told them to be quiet. Did they want me to call the police? No, we don’t want you to call the police. Then stay here, I told them. I won’t let him in.

I sat downstairs with them then. The continued to drink, and suddenly, Mum’s friend turned to Mum and said:

‘Remember when you fucked ___?’

Mum looked at me, then looked back at her friend.

‘I did not fuck him,’ she said to me.

‘You did, you lying bitch!’ screeched her friend. ‘You said he was inside you on the sofa, here, on the sofa and you fucked him and then you pushed him off you.’

My Mum went for her. I went for my Mum. I’m small, but she is smaller and I pulled her off easily.