KOOL-AID: we met in camden

we met in camden

Right. I think I’m ready to talk about him. Don’t even know what to call him. Him? Dickhead? Wanker? Fuckhead? All a bit harsh. Especially because I don’t know if I think he’s a dickhead or fuckhead or anything else derogatory. Don’t know how I feel about him. Changes every day. Every hour. Every minute. Sometimes I do think about him every minute. Sometimes I don’t think about him for days. Sometimes am angry. Sometimes am sad. Not happy. Guess that should give me a clue about how I feel about him. Can hardly remember the happy times.

We met in Camden. Mum and I had just moved there from Australia after she and my father divorced. Admittedly, was a bit vicious back then. Angry. Afflicted. Fuck the world and everything in it. Except Mum. I was a shit but I respected my mum.

She didn’t argue with my smoking. Twelve years old and she let me do it. Didn’t make her a bad mother. Was just an argument she couldn’t be bothered having. If I could buy them, I could smoke them.

And people sold me cigarettes because I looked eighteen. Was the boobs, I think. No one would expect a fourteen year old to have boobs that big.

He would be there. Same time of day, same time of week. Dark eyes, dark hair, half mob, half teddy boy. Gorgeous.

We didn’t speak for maybe two weeks. Just looks and smiles.

And then he spoke, and that was it. I knew he was older than me, but I didn’t know how much older he was at the time. Just older. And yes, my ego swelled at the thought of an older man, an adult, fancying me.

So yes, a lot of things happened that shouldn’t have happened so early in my life. Mum knew it. Is why Mum didn’t like him. Slimy, she called him.

She tried her best to keep us apart. She was unsuccessful. He hated Mum for it. And when Mum died, he blamed her. Honest to goodness. Because Mum dying meant I had to go back to Australia. Because I was underage. He said Mum died on purpose to keep us apart.

That time in Australia was horrible, fucking horrible. I’d lost my mum, yes, but all I could think about was him, and how he was back in London free to do whatever he liked, while I was stuck under my dad’s thumb.

He did do what he liked. I found out, of course. And it crushed me. Because he said it would always just be us. That we would go to the moon to be alone. Just the two of us.

And that fucker had ruined it. But it wasn’t his fault. I’d left him alone there in London. So I got him back, resulting in my father calling me a ‘fucking slut’. Sixteen years old and I was out of there. Booked a ticket with his credit card and flew back to London on my own. Lived in old flat I shared with Mum on my own.

Met Gruff. My surrogate father. In his own way, he took care of me. And life got better. I had a career, was doing well.

And then he came back.

And because I know no better. because loved him desperately, because I thought I couldn’t live without him, I took him back.

That was it. Joined at the hip. Desperately together.

Until we weren’t.

Loving him was my first drug. Drugs were my second. The church was my third drug.

What about now? Have I gone cold turkey then? Will I relapse if he came again? Would he ever come again? Would he find me here? Do I want him to find me here? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

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