East London Horror Story
You’ll notice my nipples way before you notice my face
I thumbed those words into my iPhone which had fought against the disadvantage placed on it by Tim Cook to make it past the three-year mark. I smiled, biting my lip, breathing deeply, knowing this would make him laugh.
He was standing opposite Woolwich Arsenal station on the east side of London. A station I hadn’t visited since Arunn. Juan stood at six-foot-seven. He towered over me, making me feel both small and loved, scared and protected. He waved me down and I glided towards him, well as much as I could given my sweaty gym attire. Juan engulfed me in his arms kissing me on both cheeks, true to his Spanish roots.
Shall we walk up the high street? There’s a perfect bar I know.
He tumbled in a heavy Spanish accent. I agreed and we walked for what was apparently only ten minutes but mirrored an eternity. As we walked I thought of the last time I was here. I thought of the oversized black dress I bought in a hurry. I reminisced hugging old friends. What stood most prominently was the sound of his mother howling. Arunn’s mother had screamed as if someone had set her skin alight to the dermis. Her son was gone and her entire body alight. She roared the untimely loss of her youngest son. I replayed supercuts of the day we said goodbye to Arunn. Her wails as fresh as the first night they haunted my dreams. I now knew the sound of pain in its purest form.
You’re not listening to me, are you?
I’m sorry. Something about this town makes me sad.
He doesn’t pry and I choose not to tell. We arrive at the bar in question and pause. The shutters are down, strange for 8 pm on a Tuesday. The steel gateway has been marked with the iconic logo of the local gang, yet what is more intriguing is the “For Sale” sign just above my eye line. The pandemic had claimed another victim.
Shall we head back to my place? It’s a short bus journey.
I agreed, knowing this was where the date was to end anyway. Juan and I had arranged to meet following a few days of conversation over an ill-performing dating app. He explained he had been furloughed from a restaurant where he worked part-time. I questioned which restaurant and he chose not to answer, stating, he didn’t like to discuss his personal life. As red flags go, this was a relatively small one but one I wish I had listened to.
Juan lived in a one-bedroom apartment near a sleeping industrial estate, complete with oak floorboards and floor to ceiling windows. I began to ask how he could afford a place like this, but I thought it rude. We stood in the hallway where he told me I had to change my clothes.
I know this sounds strange but I have a thing about people wearing outside clothes in my apartment. I can give you something to wear.
I slipped into an oversized t-shirt that exposed the underbelly of my plumb buttocks as I tiptoed through his apartment. He stared at me longingly, occasionally pushing back his falling glasses. He disappeared behind a foreign door and returned with two glasses of wine, red, my favourite. I sat cross-legged on a plump, cobalt-coloured sofa, where he later joined me. I fiddled on my phone and he stared with disappointing eyes.
I’m sharing my location with my friend.
Please don’t do that.
I ignored his request and the second, if not third red flag of the evening. I buried my head in the sand and convinced myself I was overreacting.
You’re more likely to be killed by someone you know than a stranger.
I silently chanted my mantra. I had obtained this fact from Facebook so its validity was questionable, but not something I was willing to debate now. My inner monologue distracted me from Juan’s hands which had moved from gripping his glass to wandering up my bare thigh. He leaned in for a kiss which I welcomed. It had been months since someone had kissed me, really kissed me. His hands travelled further up my thigh until they reached the entrance of my vulva. Juan brushed his index finger over my black cotton panties. I asked him to stop. He chose not to hear me. His lips embarked on a voyage from my lips to the nape of my neck, his one hand exploring the treasures beyond my pubic hair and the other still gripping his wine glass.
I asked again, firmer this time using my hands to redirect his wandering fingers. My venture was met with disdain as he used his other hand which he had freed to swat my hands away.
You can’t come here dressed the way you were, sitting in just my t-shirt, and not expect something to happen.
I felt trapped by his response. Was he right? Had I asked for this to happen? I moved my hand away and he performed the standard male ritual of rubbing my nipples, kissing my neck whilst inserting his fingers into me. I withdrew from my body and allowed him to truly commence his ploy. I replayed memories of my childhood, supercuts of Arunn’s funeral. Pain has been a frequent visitor. Distantly, I heard;
Oh my god, you’re so wet.
His fingers existed me and he turned me, my face on the sofa and ass in the air. It was without love, respect, or consent that he re-entered me with a firmer part of his body. He leaned forward, pushing my face further into the sofa, allowing me to realise that although this sofa was plump, it was certainly cheap. He sunk his teeth into my left shoulder, deep. I knew that would leave a scar in the morning, however, my ancestors took my mercy on me as it was shortly over. He had finished.
He exited my body, pulling off a full condom which I was grateful for. I immediately fell asleep.
I was woken the next morning by him.
I have to go out so you need to leave.
His Spanish accent now a catalyst for pain. I looked at my phone; the screen reading 6 am. He left the room returning with my clothes which screamed weekday one-night stand. He was on the phone, speaking energetically in Spanish. I tugged on my damp leggings, one leg at a time, lifting my head to catch the only clear part of his conversation.
Estaré allí pronto para dejar el perico.
