The Expensive One

TRIGGER WARNING: substance abuse, mental health issues, feelings of isolation and loneliness.

The Expensive One by Jess Chance.

I lived alone. I slept, ate, worked, and felt alone. For three years, I lived this way. Until a friend moved in.

We had a strange relationship. He would make me feel so calm, so happy, and then the feeling would wear off, and I'd be crying on the sofa. I needed him. But in the same way a cigarette addict needs to see smoke rising from their lips. I needed him because I needed someone to make me a person again. Someone just to be there.

I first saw him in the supermarket. Sitting on a top shelf, peering down at me from this great height. Like a little kid on a climbing frame. Should I get a smaller bottle? Something “safe”? I called a shop worker to get him down for me.

“Ah, going for the expensive one,” he said kindly. “A special occasion?”

I nodded slowly as if dazed - I hadn't had a proper conversation for so long. “Something like that.”

We lived together for a while. My little sister Isabella stopped calling because I never picked up. My parents stopped caring and I didn't care. My cat, Cordy, ran away. Isabella named her, after a character from one of our old favourite television shows. We've not spent enough time together to watch it. I pushed her away. But he and I were happy together, for the most part.

I cried often, but that wasn't new.

I woke up later and missed work most days, but that wasn't new either.

My head hurt and my throat was always sore, but that wasn't new.

He was just better at his job than most people are.

I forgot a lot of things. I forgot medications, forgot to call, forgot the days of the week. I forgot to go to work.

And he left when the money ran out. I stormed through the apartment, searching for him, calling out and screaming. I opened cupboard doors. I threw bowls and plates and cups onto the floor, searching in every small space. He was good at hiding. I checked the attic, we liked to crawl up there together and scroll on my phone sometimes. I cleared out my filthy bedroom, searching, screaming, calling out - a never-ending cycle.

I stopped crying after a while. I was stupid. I was being ridiculous. I could manage on my own, couldn't I?

I cleaned up the broken plates. I cleared out my room. I washed my hair and scrubbed my dirty face. I could do this! Couldn't I?

I swept the kitchen floor. I dried and brushed my hair. I pulled the cleanest clothes from the depths of my wardrobe and put them on. I was doing it! Wasn't I?

I took my first steps outside in weeks. I breathed fresh, clear air. I smiled. It felt strange. But I could do this! I was doing it! Wasn’t I?

I walked to the shop. I shuffled through the aisles. Isabella was there and she called me over. I was OK. Wasn't I?

I smiled nervously and whispered hi. She told me about her new boyfriend. She told me she was having a party and asked if I wanted to come. I said yes. I said I was excited. Wasn't I?

She asked if I wanted to come round her house

She said she got me a present. We left the shop and she walked me to her car. She handed me a wrapped gift and a bottle of champagne.

“It’s pretty expensive. I don't know if you'll like it.”

I was grateful. Wasn't I?

He stepped out from behind the car.

He smiled.

The bottle gleamed in the sunlight.

He took my hand.

I let my hand fall to my side, gripping the neck of the bottle tightly.

There was no point in trying to pull away.

I don't know why I thought I could. Why I tried to change.

I've had loads of bad ideas in my life; like when I was eight and I made a rope swing over the dried-up lake and broke my ankle. Like when I first tried wine. Like when I stopped picking up the phone. Like when I first let him into my home.

I don't like the silence. It reminds me of storms. The British weather always seems fine before the rain pours down. You forget to pack a raincoat on a seemingly sunny day, like you forget to pack a hand grenade when you move in with your fiancé. I forgot to pack a hand grenade.

But I think the state of my kitchen when the plates were raining down on the linoleum proves I'm good at smashing things up . The bottle is going the same way as the plates.

I think he knows it. He looks into my eyes.

Funny how he’s begging - I can almost remember why I let him stay the last time.

Begging like I was.

I begged.

And I wasn’t embarrassed. I begged because I was helpless. Or because I felt like it.

But hadn’t I just proved I wasn’t useless? Hadn’t I proved I could change my own fragile existence? I could love myself. I didn’t need him. And I shouldn’t.

I don’t like the silence. I never liked the quiet. It meant I was alone. It meant my parents had gone out. It meant the wine had run out. It meant that Cordy had gone away and hidden in the bushes outside. It meant he had gone away. It meant I was alone and I hated it.

I hate him. But I love him. And they don’t level each other out. They don’t meet in the middle and add up to “ok” or “fine”. I hate him, then I love him. I love him then I hate him.

I used to live alone. And the quiet was sometimes too loud. But the silence of being alone is sometimes better than him being here. I don’t want him here any more.

I don’t want him at all.