Kia Abdullah - Take It Back

When the wind finally blew from her rage, she jabbed a finger at Jodie. ‘I ain’t havin’ no part in this,’ she warned. ‘You’re on your own, you hear me?’ Can in hand, she shuffled to the living room. ‘You’re on your fuckin’ own,’ she called back as she sank to her spot by the TV and propped her feet up on the table.

Jodie felt the adrenaline drain, leaving her hot and empty. She was motionless for a moment to make sure the rage had calmed. Then, she leaned against a wall and placed two hands over her head, not quite touching the scalp, the way she used to as a child pretending to wear a knight’s mail armour. The tiny rings of metal were extraordinary in deflecting pain. These were, after all, just words. She stood like that for a long while, working through the words, letting them bounce off her. Only a few remained by the time she reached her room: you’re on your own , they said. You are on your own.

Zara leaned on the kitchen counter, still drowsy from the Diazepam. Some days, the pills brought her peace, on others, only senseless fog. Often, she craved something stronger but was too wedded to her past and the sensible, overachieving version of herself to screw up her life that badly. The first time she tried cocaine, in an illicit huddle at a Bar Council conference, it was like pulling back the curtain on the Wizard of Oz. All the myth and notoriety, the unfettered hyperbole, crumbled in the face of reality. Instead of the giddy, addictive rush of lore, she just felt alert and happy. It was almost anodyne in effect. And so she tried it again, this time with a peer at a party, and came to appreciate the sense of wellbeing. And so she tried it again – and that’s when she understood how addiction took hold. It wasn’t a bolt of lightning that fused you to your poison but a mellow descent into its seductive grip. That was the last time she touched it. East London didn’t need yet another junkie.

She poured herself a glass of water and drank it without pausing. The doorbell rang and she remembered that Luka said he would visit. She placed the glass down next to the Diazepam and let him in with a smile.

He kissed her lips, noting the lazy curve of her mouth. He raised the bottle in his hands. ‘Colorado’s finest Syrah,’ he said with a grin, knowing that Zara liked it despite what she said about American wine. He walked to the kitchen and placed it on a counter, his gaze catching on the bottle of pills. He exhaled slowly. ‘I thought you were going to stop.’

She blinked. ‘I am. When I’m ready.’

He turned to her with a sigh. His right index finger tapped against his leg the way it did when he was lost in thought: two quavers with a rest in between. ‘Zara, it’s not even seven. You’re taking pills in the afternoon now?’

‘So? I have a stressful job.’ Her voice took on a steely edge. ‘You don’t need to worry about it.’

‘But I do worry about it.’ He threw up two hands. ‘Seriously, this makes me so uncomfortable.’

She scoffed. ‘It’s not my job to make you comfortable , Luka.’

‘You could give it a try once in a while.’ He picked up the bottle and tossed it in the bin. ‘Zara, seriously, you’ve got to stop.’

She bristled. ‘Listen to me, Luka. There’s only one man who could tell me what to do and he’s dead.’

Temper sparked in his eyes. ‘Yes, and even he couldn’t stand you by the end.’

The words struck her like a fist in the gut. In a moment shorn of reason, she reached out and slapped him.

He jolted back in surprise. A muscle in his cheek flexed beneath the rising colour and his hands clenched in fists by his side. He took a few short breaths to calm himself. His shoulders rose and dipped with the effort, then slowly came to rest. He spoke to her in a low voice: ‘Zara, look at you. Look at that rage burning inside. Would you really be so angry if you didn’t think it were true?’ He waited. ‘You think you can bury your feelings in a bottle? You think striking me will wipe your past clean?’

Zara held his gaze. ‘Leave,’ she said. Luka’s words smarted like wounds. Even he couldn’t stand you by the end.

‘No,’ said Luka. ‘You can’t drug yourself free of your father’s shadow. It’s everywhere you go. You say you quit your job to do some good, as if walking out didn’t sabotage everything you worked so hard for. You remind me all the time that we’re just having “fun” – but this isn’t fun anymore, Zara. Drugging yourself to oblivion isn’t “fun”; it’s cowardice.’

Zara squared her shoulders. ‘Just go,’ she said coldly. The sting of his words mixed now with a feverish self-loathing. He was the first person she’d ever struck.

Luka’s lips tensed over gritted teeth. ‘Zara, don’t do this. Don’t just shut down.’

She said nothing, as much as to hide her shame as to control her anger.

‘Stop acting like a child.’ Luka’s patience waned in the silence. ‘You’re impossible, you know that? Fucking impossible.’ He waited for a beat. ‘Call me when you grow the fuck up.’ He stalked out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.

His ugly words rang in her ears. They felt hot and prickly like blisters on skin. Even he couldn’t stand you by the end . The sheer ease with which he’d said them, the unthinking indifference, hurt more than a physical blow. Luka knew what her father had meant to her. That he would use him now to carve a malicious taunt stung like betrayal.

Even he couldn’t stand you by the end .

Denial flooded her veins. I was the one who stayed away. I was the one who refused to be to be seen. Deep down, however, she knew the quiet truth. She knew that even though he had tried, towards the end her father couldn’t bear to hear her name let alone see her face.

It was the summer of 2016 that she said yes to an arranged marriage. The grass outside was a burnt brown and the windows were open as far as they would go. Her father was on his second hospital stay of the year so while she can’t say she was forced or coerced , the situation was prime for emotional blackmail. ‘You’re his only burden,’ her mother would say with only the lightest touch of accusation. ‘He worries about you’ – as if marriage had solved all her siblings’ problems.

She sat there in the sweltering heat draped in her impossibly heavy silk sari, all blazing orange and gold-embroidered trim. She was told the colour would look amazing against her long dark hair – an irrelevant point of persuasion since it was now gathered in a bun, modestly tucked beneath the head of her sari. Her face was a mask of makeup, her foundation a touch too light, the sort that cast an ashy pallor if shown beneath the wrong light. Her eyes were lined with kohl and mascara in the heavy, dramatic strokes that made brunettes look sexy but blondes look trashy. Her lips were painted nude to downplay their obvious appeal, far too seductive for a demure little housewife. And jewellery everywhere. Her ears, freshly pierced after she let the last holes close, shone with Indian gold. Her neck was wrapped in elaborate jewels that would look at home on an Egyptian queen. There she sat, elegant, poised, perfected and neutered. She saw herself through a prism; not as a university graduate, not an ambitious lawyer, not a smart and successful woman but something else altogether, something shapeless and tasteless, a malleable being that had lost its way. There she sat and waited.

Kasim Ali was the fifteenth suitor presented to her that year. She had worn out her rightful refusals about five suitors back and patience was wearing thin. He was big and broad with thinning hair atop milky white skin. His shiny suit was just a tad too tight and his navy tie made his neck fat crease. He was neither attractive nor ugly, just unremarkable.