Stop YB

I wake up in the middle of the night. My forehead is covered in sweat. Another nightmare where I run away in a dark alley ending up in his clutches. My throat is dry; I need water. I move my hand under the pillow and grab my phone. My view is blurry. I keep an eye closed to focus on the screen.

It’s 3am.

There is a sudden sound of sirens speeding through Seven Sisters Road, and I stand up straight. I look outside the window, but there is no one. I check if the front door locks are secured, switching on the apartment’s lights in my way. Tremors run through my spine, chills on my skin, and my stomach ache at every sound. I need to relax. He is in jail, and he won’t find me here. I’m safe. I sit down at the kitchen table, rubbing my eyes. I prepare some tea; maybe it’ll help me get back to sleep.

While the water fills up the kettle, I look at my pale reflection on the metal. My puffy eyes with dark shadows and tangled copper hair bring out the ghost I became.

His last message is imprinted in my mind.

“I will find you. You are mine”.

                                                                  *

I just finished my twelve hours shift. I’m exhausted. Christmas is the worst time of the year to work in a restaurant. People constantly try to book every space you have and even the space you don’t.

It’s already 4 am, and the streets of Soho are still full of people shouting.

A couple of girls bend over, throwing up their souls on the pedestrian walk, uncivilised men urinating in every corner, shadows in Bourchier Street blowing their lives away, and dignity running away in high hills and body-con dresses.

Wardour Street can be a nasty place, but the tips are too appealing.

“Hey, beautiful, looking for fun tonight?” I jump hearing these words, but I ignore them. I hate getting attention.

I see his face and feel his shadow everywhere I go. His maniac eyes staring at me in the supermarket or in the tube. I start to feel unsettled. Maybe some music will relax my nerves, although I need to hear if someone follows me.

It’s been weeks since the process and his arrest. One year of jail for months of stalking.

I moved away from my old apartment and changed job. I thought I could start new, forgetting about this nonsense and move on.

“Hey! Excuse me,” a muffled voice called me. I ignore it again.

“Hey! Miss!” again. I speed up. Can’t you see I’m not interested?! Just leave me alone.

I feel a hand on my right arm holding me back. I turn around to face him, removing my arm from his grip.

“Don’t touch me!” I shout to this bloke with a wool hat and a scarf over his mouth.

“S-sorry, Miss,” he said with his hands raised in a defensive position. “I think you dropped this”.

In his cold-red hand, is an Oyster card. I check my pockets, and I can’t find mine. Shit!

“Ok. Thank you. Sorry for... I thought...” I leave it in mid-sentence and walk away.

He must think I’m one of those crazy people that wander around lashing off on strangers for no reason. That bastard messed up with my head.

Finally, I’m at the bus stop in Oxford Street. I check City Mapper: 7 more minutes for the bus, and I can get the hell out of here.

I decide to put my earphones on and play Billie Eilish’s new single.

I need to sit down. The blisters at my feet hurt, and my legs are throbbing.

Some genius puked all over the bus stop, and the rancid smell is sharp in this cold.

Oxford Street seems unreal with no crowd walking in the opposite direction blocking your way, or endless queues at the tills waiting for a haughty defensive clerk ready for further complaints.

The Christmas lights and the...

My earphones get abruptly pulled out.

“Hey, you!”.

It takes me a few seconds to focus on the scene: a man with long hair, a thick beard and a stained blanket on his shoulders is shouting at me.

“Hello! Are you deaf?! I’m talking to you bitch!”. He finishes spitting on the floor, leaving a line of spit stuck in his beard.

Whenever he breathes, a wave of whiskey burns my nostrils. Oh, God.

“W-what?”. Fear starts to build up.

“Y’all think ‘yo too pretty for me?!” he shouts, getting closer.

I want to scream, but nothing comes out.

I desperately look around for help.

The man is closer than ever. His stink fills my nose and mouth, I fight the urge to puke. I see dark stains on his clothes, infected blisters and bumps on his hands. He pushes me, but I can’t react. I’m petrified. My legs don’t seem to respond. My view starts to be foggy. Like a grip that closes on my neck, a punch in the stomach and the air leaves my lungs. I try to inhale, but nothing gets in. My heart is pounding in my ears.

“Hey!”. Someone pushed my attacker to the side. ‘What ‘ye doing, man!?”.

I’m on my knees, bent forward with my hands on my stomach, trying to breathe. Black spots tarnish my view, my head is light, and my body is shaking. I can hear voices getting angrier and a shadow backing up. I feel cold sweat on my face and palms. I can hear steps getting closer.

“Oh shite”. Someone says.

                                                                    *

I feel something on my face. A tickle. No. Pain. Someone is slapping me.

“Hey! Wake up!” Another slap on my right cheek, stronger this time. I open my eyes.

“Aaaaa, stop. Please. I’m awake,” I say, protecting my face with my hands.

I see something pink between my fingers and smell a rancid odour, like bowl juice mixed with alcohol. I’m lying close to the puke. I try to get up with a quick move, but dizziness hits me.

“Come on; I’ll help ye”. Blinded by the street lamp light, I feel my arm taken and my body lifted. “Careful now,” she says.

Once I’m up, I have to widen my eyes to focus on the person in front of me.

“Who are you?” I ask.

She is taller than me, dressed entirely in black leather, Dr Martens boots and a nose ring. The hair is bright pink shaved on the right side. Her hands inside her jacket’s pockets, looking for something.

“Yer guardian angel pumpkin”, she answers in a deep and joking voice.

“Thank you for helping me,” I say, looking around, making sure the man isn’t here. “Where is he?”.

“Don’t worry, that shite won’t bother you anymore. ‘can’t stand lads that don’t understand their place ”. She says in a soft Scottish accent, taking a cigarette and a lighter out of her jacket.

She moves closer to the wall and lay her back on it, lifting her foot backwards. “I’m Ava, by the way.” She says, lighting up her cigarette.

“I’m Jade. Nice to meet you.” Now that my vision is back, I take my phone out to check the next available bus. Twenty minutes! No way. It was already almost five in the morning.

I let an “Oh no!” slip out.

“What’ now?” Ava asks, looking at me and taking a deep drag on her cigarette.

“N-nothing. Just my bus is in twenty minutes, and tomorrow I need to wake up early”.

I must have lost the other bus when I was unconscious.

“I’ll wait with ye. In case the smelly bugger decides to come back”.

“Oh, you don’t have to..” I start but I stop immediately pierced by her stern gaze. I feel hot waves spreading on my cheeks. “Ok. Thank you”. I spill out, turning around to don’t face her.

“What’s yer deal here?” She asks.

Excellent, now we need to make conversation.

“I work in a bar in Wardour Street. I finished late, and I was waiting for a bus, then that guy came bothering me, and I had a panic attack.” I say, thinking how to avoid being here at this time again. “What about you?”.

“I was at a party and I got bored”. Ava looks away. Something happened, I think. “Why do ye stare?!” she lashes out.

“I wasn’t….” I can’t think of what to say. I look away. My neck and cheeks are burning. I must be flushed red.

“Aye, aye, it was a joke.” Ava moves in front of me. She looks down into my eyes and lets the smoke hiss out through her smile.

“What are you doing?” I half step back, but she grabs me, keeping me closer to her.

“Don’t go just yet.” She says softly. She is very close now. Her breath on my cheek mixed with the scent of tobacco from her leather jacket.

She has one hand on my back and the other under my chin.

I don’t want to go.

A bus stops next to us. It’s my bus. The 52.

Like she hears my thoughts, Ava moves away. “Get home safely”.

“Yes. Thank you”. I step on the bus, tap the oyster, but I keep looking at her.

She is staring at me too. The cigarette finished in her hand, touched by her lips. People are still getting off the bus. Is she going to…?

The doors close.

Ava turns around and walks away with a new cigarette in her hand.

I don’t have her number. Will I see her again?

I smile, almost forgetting about the mess in my life.

London and its mysteries. Maybe we will find each other again.

Maybe even tomorrow night at the YB bus stop.