This is a bit of an experiment. I'm supposed to be revising science, but the only equation I've learned so far is Flossie + revision = Harry/Nikki fanfiction, which isn't too helpful. And then my sister set me the challenge of writing a SW fic based around the first song to come up on her ipod, including Nikki drunk, and a date which ended badly, and an explanation as to the box of clutter in Nikki's fireplace as seen in the H/N scene at her house from 'A guilty mind.' The song happened to be 'Sheila' by Jamie T, which I hadn't actually heard before. So I've done my best. It's not finished yet, but hopefully you guys can give me some feedback and let me know if it's actually any good before I put the next part up?
The writing in italics is what's happened earlier to lead to what's happening in the present, if you understand what I mean. Hopefully it will all make sense when you start to read!
Hope you like, and if enough people want this to continue and review then I'll get part 2 up in the next few days. And the next chapter of LinL should be up tomorrow evening :)
Love Flossie xxx
Pandora's Box
Sheila goes out with her mate Stella,
Gets poured all over her fella,
Because she says that he ain't no better,
Than the next man kicking up fuss,
Drunk, she stumbles down by a river,
Screams calling 'London',
But none of us heard her coming,
Guess the carpet weren't rolled out.
You're not quite sure what possessed you to do it, looking back, but it almost certainly wasn't the cold, harsh chill of November air in England, the light yet frozen drizzle of the rain and the damp, muddy bank of the river. It wasn't the darkness of the night, the sounds of cars speeding over the motorway bridge and vulnerability that comes from being out alone at this time of night in London, sitting in the middle of nowhere in the blackness. It must have been the alcohol, you decide, that and a fierce desire to prove something to yourself, to prove that you have someone who cares about you. Except that one backfired, you sigh to yourself miserably. Because it hasn't worked, and he's not coming. Nobody cares after all.
So how did it come to this? It depresses you sometimes, and in your drunken state the pain is only intensified. How have you managed to get through 34 years of life, lived across 2 countries, 2 continents, 2 hemispheres, and have nothing to show for any of it, unless you count a large cardboard box of photos stashed away in the hole in your wall at home where the fireplace should be? That makes you laugh, because the alcohol has messed with your sense of humour, big time, and at the moment the thought of what the original Georgian owner of your apartment would say if he could see what the place looks like now is hilarious. You doubt he'd appreciate the box in the fireplace, the beaded curtain hanging from the ceiling in your bedroom, or the collection of African wood sculptures which you had to smuggle in through UK customs in a suitcase full of medical equipment, on the basis that no one was going to look in there. He'd be appalled, that's what he'd be, and he wouldn't understand the strange and complicated world in which you live. You're laughing for a good 5 minutes before you realize it's not funny. And by that point, you can't even remember what the Georgians have to do with your distinct lack of friends and family. Nothing, probably. You can't think straight when you're drunk, however hard you try.
It's cold out here. There's a small, timid voice at the back of your mind, the voice of logic and common sense, and it's telling you to give it up. 'Nobody's coming', it's telling you. 'Nobody cares, everyone's got their own family and friends to be with; they haven't got time to be bothering with you. And that's not going to change just because you decide to freeze yourself to death. It's not worth it, go home.'
But you're intoxicated, and when you're intoxicated you avoid that quiet little voice of common sense as if it were the plague, though for the life of you, you can't explain why. Because you're tired, so tired, emotionally drained too, almost to the point that you can't find the strength to move. You want someone to come and rescue you, to turn up worried and frantic, to pick you up and hold you tight and take you home. That's cruel, you tell yourself, wanting to cause people anxiety like that, and the more you think about it, the more you realize that's what this whole thing is about: wanting to make people worry about you. Attention seeking, that's what it is. Maybe that's why you've found yourself alone, because you're such a horrible, selfish, attention-seeking person that no one wants anything to do with you. You don't blame them. When you're this drunk, sometimes you hate yourself, too.
"So which unsuitable man are you off to see tonight?" Harry remarked as he entered the changing area, gaining a feigned look of shock from Nikki, who was sat on the bench at the centre of the room, applying her make up. She didn't usually wear much in the way of make up to work, so perhaps it was the presence of the blusher and eye shadow on the bench beside her that gave the game away. Or perhaps, she mused, it was the good mood she had been in over the past couple of weeks, perhaps Harry had picked up on that. He was surprisingly perceptive when he wanted to be, for a man. But she would never tell him that, of course. She loved to tease him too much.
"What makes you think," Nikki began, not failing to notice the look of amusement on Harry's face, "that just because I happen to be dressing up, I'm going out to meet a man? I could be going out with friends for all you know. Ok, ok, his name's Andrew," she sighed dramatically, knowing she wasn't going to be able to keep her new boyfriend a secret from him for too much longer, anyway. "We've been dating for a couple of weeks, and he's taking me out for dinner tonight, not that it's any of your business. Happy now?"
"No, I don't think I am."
She raised her eyebrows at him, daring him to continue.
He looked right at her now, perfectly serious. "You haven't submitted him for the Harry test."
She laughed. "And what exactly is the Harry test?"
"It's a way of me ensuring that your boyfriends are appropriate" Harry explained. "I don't want you settling down with anyone unsuitable."
"What, like your adoring 25 year olds?" she joked. "I'll have you know that Andrew is actually my age!"
"Oh, he is, is he? Just because he's your age, it doesn't mean he's suitable! Just look at what happened with Ryan the paramedic!"
"That wasn't my fault! How was I supposed to know he was a racist pig?" Nikki protested, before glancing at her watch. "I'd better go; I said I'd meet Andrew at 7.30."
"OK, I'll see you tomorrow. And tell him to book in for a Harry test before your one month anniversary, or else I'll have to ban him from seeing you until he's at least 80!"
"He'll be old and wrinkly by then!"
"That's the point!"
It's getting colder now, slowly but surely. The rain has gotten heavier and it's beginning to soak through your clothes, but you don't care, not at first. You're still drunk out of your mind, lost in a fantasy world where nothing matters, where you are numbed of all feeling and emotions. But the drizzle turns to downpour and the shock of the cold water hitting you begins to sober you up, and suddenly the cold edge of the water isn't quite so appealing. Now you just feel uncomfortable as the water seeps through your cardigan, and you are bitterly regretting your decision to not bother with a coat. What on earth made you think that was a good idea in mid-November? But then again, you weren't exactly planning all this, were you? It just sort of escalated. Escalated way out of control.
You didn't know you were afraid of the dark. You decide that you're not, that it's just the alcohol in your system, stopping you from holding yourself together after the hellhole of an evening out you've just had. There's no way you're afraid of the dark; absolutely not. After everything you've done in your life, everything you've seen, everything you've dealt with and come out the other side, there's no way you're going to be defeated by something as trivial as the dark. You won't let it happen; you're too strong for that.
And yet the voice in the back of your mind- the voice of common sense, the one you ignored earlier- is telling you that perhaps there's a good reason to be afraid. You're in the middle of nowhere on a cold, dark night in London, Saturday night and close to the clubs, all alone and with no one knowing where you are. When you put it like that, it doesn't exactly sound safe. You know you'd be the perfect target for someone up to no good, that right now you're in grave danger of ending up like some of the bodies in the mortuary fridge, but still, you don't care. Nobody else cares, after all. Nobody's coming.
Holding back a sob, a dry, hopeless drunken sob that you could really be doing without right now, you reach into your handbag and pull out your mobile, just to be sure you haven't missed his call. But nothing. You know he's out with his mother tonight, with his family, and he hasn't got time for you. Nobody has. Andrew only wanted you for sex, you know that much now, he was never any better than the rest of the long string of men who've come and gone throughout your life, a string which seems to wrapping itself tightly around your neck like a cobra the older you become, taunting you with their lack of love and commitment. Even your own father's a waste of space; only gets in contact with you when he's after your money and dumps you back on the garbage heap when you refuse. And your mother is long gone, fading in your mind's eye with each passing day, though you won't admit it, not even to yourself. You can't allow her to disappear completely; you can't be left alone in a world where no one cares. You just can't. And you haven't even gotten going on the friends yet: friends who promised to write and keep in touch when you left for England, only to ignore your letters, avoid your phone calls, university friends who've settled down with husbands and children and don't have the time for you anymore. You've got Harry and Leo to an extent, but only because you imposed yourself on them, because you didn't give them a choice. You gate-crashed their lab for goodness sake! You tied them down with a pile of Iron Age bones and invaded their space, and at a time when they were looking for a new pathologist, as it happened. It was a convenience hiring, that's what it was. They didn't really want you, but they just didn't have anyone else.
'Nikki, stop it!' you tell yourself. 'You're talking a load of crap, and you know it!' But you're reaching the depressed stage of your intoxication and you can't think straight, and before you know it the bad thoughts have overwhelmed you. You just can't seem to shake free of them, no matter how hard you try. God, you hate being this drunk.
