NICHÉ EXPECTATIONS

COCONUT — CHAPTER SIX

“Then must you speak

Of one that loved not wisely, but too well;”

Othello.

I dream of darkness. Utter darkness.

Or are they clouds?

I blink and blink again. Am I awake? Looking again a canopy of cloud forms above my head; an army of busying bloated soldiers surround me, shoving each other for prime position whilst circling my location. I am trapped.

Why am I here — wait, where is here?

Am I lost again in Dubai? Hollywood? Or is this Devon?

I am sitting alone; thoroughly fixed, ground into a damp, sandy bank. My hands are blushed red from the bitty grains and the pressure of holding myself upright, caked between my fingers I struggle to balance myself to see the oncoming view. I try to sit straight but am pushed back into the sand. It is warm where I sit, so I feel at home. I must be safe with a view this astounding. Never had a seen a view so desolate yet alluring.

But why is the sand so wet where I am sitting? This is far from idyllic.

Questioning the view and my existence, I look on, further, deeper. I make out rolling, grassy hills before the horizon, it feels like it could be dusk, the sky is a rare burnt dark orange, a sign we are by the sea; my eye line follows the trail of foliage and trees dotting the landscape, up and down, down then up, up then around, from east to west my eyes dart until my head spins. I lose balance again but am still seated, legs shallowly bent, my back firmly in the ground, embedded into the sand where I sit.

There is a turn in the weather, barks of thunder dangerously escape the surrounding troops. They clearly have no care for those below. Rattling above, around and past me, electricity sparks, lighting up all the land I can see and then nothing, darkness flows yet again. They laugh and smoke whilst they batter the land below with every thunderbolt they throw. This is enemy fire so powerful the ground shakes and cracks, pounding me further into the bank. I am pushed back by an almighty trembling force, again and again, again and once more again, the thunder strikes the land with no regrets. Am I prisoner in this dream?

Helpless I try and reach out for help, my fingers are locked into the undergrowth, I try to scratch out and pull away at the foliage between my fingers, but these scrambling attempts do not free me. A prisoner in nature’s beautiful scene unfolding right before me. Light bursts from the horizon like a sabre beheading the tips of land. It is a short sweep and is over before I get to enjoy the newly revealed view.

I try to open my mouth but it is as if I am underwater. My mouth jolts opens and a flood of water washes in me, swilling the inside of my mouth like a broken, juddering washing machine, it drowns me — I breathe in deeply as if it is my last breath. There is a weight on my chest with every stroke and bolt I desperately try and inhale.

How am I drowning on dry land?

I must be dying.

Motion sickness enter my system, it is all encompassing, yet I still have not moved from my position. The overhanging clouds start to move faster above my heads, I am still fixed. Solitarily confined. My brain swills inside my skull, backflipping and warping, kneading inside out and backwards. I feel sick and need to scream but I am too scared to open my mouth again. Worried for the return of the wave of the washing machine liquid sping pouring into my mouth.

After the dramatics of the mortars raining onto land, there is a silence, rain finally begins to pour; the pattering sound engulfs my surroundings and thankfully the tone of the day begins to change. The painted orange countryside melts into a starry nights sky, I see colours of midnight blue with a burst of emerald green. At first the rain is cooling, lowering the temperature of the environment, then becomes warming from the inside out, my whole body stops to resist and I am wrapped in heat, bursting from my spine, up through my lungs, bouncing up my neck and finally into my temples and eyes.

The sand that once trapped me begins to wash away, the grip of the night slowly releases me from my open cage. I think I am free.

Blackout.

Mummified, I wake. The dark night of the soul unlocks.

Laying silently, I contemplate my dream. I try to download the missing scenes from my evening, but it seems as though the director cut out the final quarter of the film. Focusing on the good, at least I know where I am.

I am in Holland Park. 1a Holland Park Mews to be exact. West of Notting Hill, a well to do area in London. And this, at the very young age of 20, is where I call home. Spread over 3 floors excluding a roof terrace above, notorious parties have erupted inside these four walls. I have naughtily hosted the great, the good and the unwashed, seen the sun rise far too many times, and watched royalty and rich kids unravel before my very eyes. All in the name of a good night.

And at this point I have to admit, I am posh, privileged and mixed race. A true rarity with a plethora of pros and cons. For being one of us, a mixed-race kid can sometimes become a true commodity in itself.

Dancing between both camps is a skillful sport, to juggle opinions, to not overegg the point, to hold back and not react, to reluctantly join in on the joke and then, to be the butt of the joke quite quickly takes new found character,, coining the phrase before anyone else uses it and being rhythmic in your approach to life and love. You can easily churn up an assortment of fair-weather friends by playing your cards right. You are more unique. More than an individual. You are special.

Bursting through private school and ultimately boarding, presented me with a new identity crisis. In the grounds of this new school I could reinvent myself to be anything I wanted to be. I was shy, but here, away from parents and prying eyes, I could be louder, stronger, more.. me, more Stevie. Learning how to play up to my god given qualities, I soon realized I was in a much different position to most.

I was different. Inside and especially on the outside.

I was treated differently by a number of different segments of school whilst growing up. Now in my mid-teens, I found the girls were fascinated with me; light eyes, curly European hair and brown skin made me a handsome target, being softly spoken and thoughtful made me an easy shoulder to cry on and a confidant to most. But being so ogrishly large and cumbersome also scared off most of the girls, I would really only associate with the most confident of the opposite sex. Being 6 foot five at 16 will do that to you.

The boys, the white-English boys, competed with me due to my height and attention I received from the opposite sex. I never connected to the already established cliques, I was never let in, not due to my personality, but because of the initial fear of a new alpha male. Or maybe it was just because I didn’t own a farm or father wasn’t in the army or an previous attendee of whatever school I was standing in this year.

The American, African or English boys of colour plainly rejected me at first. Not one of them let me into their circle at this point in my life. I had a sprinkling of black buddies later on, friendly nods-in-the-corridor type of pals — but no true connections were made at school with any POC. Simply, I preferred rugby to basketball, I tried and failed to enter into this fist bumping, low slung short, closed collective. It was only until my first string of girlfriends (or namely one of the black-boys’ favourite due to her junk in the trunk) did I gain the respect of that wider collective.

The teachers were the worst, and just couldn’t (or wouldn’t) understand me — I was constantly in detention; my outward projection of my character shouted trouble maker, judged on how I looked from the offset, the perceived arrogance of wealth warped their minds to view me negatively, making all conclude I was not worth their time, that my shyness to speak to them was rudeness. It was only until I played the game with them did my grades improve. How can gifting your teacher with attention allow your grades go from a D to an A within a year. There must be something wrong in the system somewhere.

A cocktail of private schooling and wealth can open all the right doors. But these same doors are ready and willing to be slammed in your face if you are not willing to play the game.

A life of being on the fence seemed to be my future, dusted with dopamine hits from oncoming friendships and experiences is all I was after. I just needed to be accepted, by someone, anyone. And I was willing to act up to find that respect.

You have the choice. The control is in your hands. It always has been. It always will be. You can be anyone you want to be.

Stuck inside another day dream of the past, we are back in Holland Park. I am lying there, wrapped tight and bound by my sheets of my unmade bed, dull-eyed, thirsty staring at my closed bedroom door. The day had truly started with light filling the entire room, lazily I keep my eyes as closed as possible, wishing the day away. Sticky dehydrated and alone I break free from the slippy white tentacles of my slumber.

My long, dark hair is matted to my face, my mouth is impossibly dry and can feel with my tounge what feels like a cut lip or graze. I heavily groan into a low roar whilst trying to stretch my limbs. Slowly swinging my legs onto the thick, carpeted floor. I take a slow, overly long inhale of breath through my nose. Oxygen is good I think. Sitting up whilst I put my head in my hands, my back whines in pain, I am stiff and brittle. What happened to me last night I think to myself.

Standing up, my bedding parts from me as if I am Noah parting the red sea. Sheets peel away, unravel and roll off me. I look over my domain, my kingdom, scanning to see any remanence of the previous night.

One thing I realize standing up straight, is that I am completely naked.

As I stagger forward into my bathroom, the mirror reveals my truth. Knowing the simple path from many a hangover before, I find my way with my eyes still scrunched close. Running the basin tap, crisp, cold water gushes out. I arch over, cupping my hands to feed myself the cold aqua soothing my pains.. It is more than needed; Slurping, I look up, my eyes are bloodshot red, dark bags swing under my eyes and my skin colour is a light shade of grey. I stop still, I have red lipstick smeared all over the right and left side of my face. I don’t smile, I look twice, i am confused.

What is going on? I rub my eyes with one hand, the other on my hip. I am desperately trying to piece together the end of my evening. Who was I with, how did I get home and where are my fucking clothes?

My eyes trail down my body, I have deep claw marks across my chest. Shocked, I turn around in the mirror to reveal my back. The same very marks run across and around the back of my upper torso. I touch one stroke of red slash mark with my index finger, it is sour and sharp to touch, the wound is fresh.

Finally, I look down to my feet. A quick wiggle reveals all ten in place. But wait, whats this… A condom is stuck to the backside of my leg.

How did I not see or feel this before. red with embarrassment and confusion, I pull off the suspect durex from me and inspect. It is rolled out, but with no evidence of me using it at all. Or finishing in it more to the point.

Thank god I think. Suddenly I hear a door bang.

“hello?” I call out with little to no authority, but frankly I am shitting myself. Unbelievable scenarios sweep into my head. From murderous neighbours, to dark and pissed off ex’s, anything could be up there. Waiting for me, waiting to finish off the job! I knew my neighbor was a creep I think, he’s done this, Ive been date raped on the door. He’s always hated me.. never trust a banker.

“Helloooo?!” I call out again. There is no response. Again, I call out, a little louder and firmer, still nothing. They must have run off.

Waiting patiently, still naked and still a little bit scared. I start to remember my evening tryst. Flashbacks tunnel into my head and my stomach churns. Unsure if it is the alcohol or my memory making me feel sick, I turn and exit the bathroom. I can’t look at myself any longer, I think this emotion is called shame.

With a new found confidence, or intrigue, I open the closed bedroom door and slowly make my way, up the stairs. Using the banister to pivot my dead weight I pull my broken body up one stair at a time, my things whine with every step on the way, to the top floor where the front door slammed. Still naked and confused I stand still, alone in house. Scratching my head I sigh, I am so relieved, I am Han Solo, my chewbacca still hanging low.

Something is different. The house has been cleaned. It’s spotless.

I see a plate of freshly cut fruit, a cut pineapple, peeled, sliced apples, watermelon triangles and peeled oranges are on my kitchen table. Next to this medley of goodness are a bunch of flowers, pinks, purples and blues, wrapped in a pink bow. Beside that, the mornings’ papers and a copy of Tatler.

There is a note, it reads;

“Dearest Stevie

Thank you for the wonderful night.

Love, X “

Shit me, I smirked, must have put in a performance and a half.

Memories flood to me. Fuck. No. No she didn’t. It was her! My friend with the big bag at the pub! I knew she had a little crush on me, my friends had mocked me about it for years, but not to this extent. Had I been leading her on? Has my good nature and friendship created a crush that could not be controlled. She was noticeably obsessed. I’d catch her eye every now and again, watching me. And I didn’t see it until now.

This is the first time I have ever had any type memory loss but unfortunately my brain will not let me forget. This is the beginning of a life long scar. Bolts of the evening’s festivities come to me faster than a bull whip, back and forth I get slapped with raw memories; her grinding on top of me, the fat of her backside slapping and clapping. Slamming her breasts into my chest and face, drowning me in flesh,, gnawing at me like a raging, mad dog, her holding me down and trying to get me at full mast with her mouth and failing. I am far too drunk to perform any act. Me trying to break free only to be pushed hard back down into the bed. Her wiping herself all over me so hard it felt like I had carpet burns on the tops of my thighs and hips. My bruised pelvis showed evidence of her blind hope in grinding herself into satisfaction. Her hair whipping around the room as if in some 1980s porn film found on a dirty VHS, her writhing around and screaming heavily whilst I lay there motionless and half dead.

I feel used. I have been used. The obsessive nature to bag the brown boy was a mission accomplished for this young lady. She found herself encapsulated by the easy-going and heartfelt nature of the young mixed man-child. My charm and tone intoxicating, my skin soft and forever tanned, a pin up poster boy without the trimmings. Her previous advances battered off as mild and friendly flirting for years — she saw her chance and took it. And took it for all it was worth and more. For once, I was not in control.