The Brighter The Light

‘Aren't we damn supposed to, though? No change is no growth. I ain't gonna be sorry for being different now so if you wanna keep judging me by that, then sayonara, girl. We can't be friends no more.’ She explains for the voice in her AirPods to hear, her nostrils flaring in bitter frustration.

Her loose locks are covering the headphones, and, with no one else on the street around her, it makes her look like some nutcase that's had too much to drink, rambling to herself like that - as if she was trying to justify to her own self the 180-degree change that happened in her upon moving to London.

She really couldn't care less, though. ‘And that’s the beauty of it.’ She concludes. However bitter of a reminder the phone call to her once best friend is, she would choose the glorious freedom of being anonymous in this multicultural crowd over the familiarity of her hometown a million times over - even if it meant leaving its comforting safety and people dear to her heart behind.

It's not that she had a bad life back in her country. The very opposite of it as a matter of fact. She grew up in a loving family surrounded by great friends in a picturesque little town, and she took pride in the kind and sensitive being it created out of her.

But now, approaching the end of her twentieth trip around the sun, the place felt too small for her; as if someone tried to squeeze her into a pair of jeans two sizes down. There were greater dephts of her personality seething under her skin, itching to be explored, and she simply couldn't do that in a place no longer a challenge to her ever-expanding character.

And so, lured by some inexplicable inner calling, she moved all the way across the sea to London.

***

Walking down one of Shoreditch's graffiti-sprayed streets her steps echo to the Overground train crawling by with thuds and thumps in the distance. She's wearing tight faux leather trousers she's got from the Turk that has a stall by her flat, and a skimpy lacy top, and finally doesn't feel like it makes her a person of loose morals. Now she can embrace her natural curves at last since there's no one that knows her here to judge her for it and subconsciously alter her perception - a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see who she really is.

‘Hey, babe! That’s some nice black girl's bum you've got there.’ A voice from somewhere behind her says all of a sudden.

She turns around and her gaze lands on a dark-skinned guy that's just appeared out of the blue.

With his frizzy hair up in a neat bun, a playful smile on his full lips, and what one would call a thirst for life flickering behind his eyes, he's looking quite handsome.

The weed she's smoked makes her ignore the alarm bell sounding in her head trying to warn her against engaging with stranger guys on a dark and empty street, and she smiles flirtatiously.

‘Oh, yeah? Thank you, I'll take it as a compliment. And that’s some cool trainers you got there. Very unique, I like your style.’ She says sarcastically, gazing down at his all white AF1's, probably the one most common shoes in the whole of modern London.

It's her way of testing if he's got any sense of humour and distance to himself.

‘I know, right? It's thanks to my special aura. It takes skill to wear such a standard item of clothing in a unique way.’

They're walking so close together all of a sudden that their bodies pretty much brush against each other, their steps synchronised, which sends a warning chill down her spine.

She dives into her back pocket quickly, and places her keys in between her knuckles, just in case a need to pierce his eyes in self-defence arose.

‘Oh, your aura? You mean the smell of weed mixed with some cheap cologne, huh?’ Her mouth utters with a playful grin before she can bite her tongue. She's enjoying spilling out the sour juice too much too care though. It's nice not to be so nice for once.

***

Before she knows it, their flirty banter leads them straight into a nightclub, the chilly fresh air swapped for its basement stuffiness.

On the dancefloor, they both jive to the beats of the rave music like puppets on strings. Their movements quickly turn into suggestive swaying as they relax a little more. The cacophony of flashing lights blinds their eyes. They're engulfed in a trance and the outside world ceases to exist. The alcohol keeps flowing as if on an IV drip and sends their blood abuzz. Sweat mixed with hair gel tingles their nostrils.

The bombastic excess and electric vibe of this place is the kind of London life her thirsty soul wanted to try, she realises, as the high decibles eventually turn into steady ringing in her ears.

Dazed by all the dizzying stimulus, she sinks deeper into her trance-like state.

The guy's - Jerome's - hands start to wander down her waist. Rather than stopping him there and then like she should, she welcomes it with a smile.

A few more centimetres down and he's pretty much cupping her curves.

Giving in to the sensations, she lets her eyelids rest down for a brief moment.

Noticing this, Jerome quickly takes his chance to drop a barely noticeable pill into the glass she's been religiously holding her fingers over the wh0le time.

He succeeds. She has no idea her drink has just been spiked. She's been too focused on the skin prickles caused by the kisses he's planting down her neck for added distraction.

‘Let's go to the toilet, babe.’ He mumbles into her ear through the surrounding noise, trying to nibble at it at the same time.

She pulls away a little, her mouth suddenly in need of a drink. ‘Uh-uh, you gotta succeed licking my mind first, then I might consider letting you try the rest.’ She replies and takes a sip, grateful for the blinding lights helping her hide the playful smile already dancing on her lips again.

***

It's only an hour of dancing and a couple of drinks later that she does follow his lead to the shiny dim-lit cubicles that must have been witness to thousands of spontaneous one-night stands already.

Excitement starts to mix with anxiety as she breaks out of the trance and realises what is about to happen.

She wonders if she’ll know what to do, having never been in a situation like this before. ‘What if he realises how inexperienced I am and it gets awkward?’ She wonders, straight away finding it surprising her that she even cares what he’d think; as if it mattered at all.

Slamming the door shut, Jerome slows down her suddenly racing mind (since, luckily for her, the strength of the drug is beginning to wear off by now) and takes her worries away with his gentle arms that embrace her confidently and softly pull her onto her tiptoes.

A dizzying wave of pleasure rips through her chest as his fingers begin wandering all over her back and neck.

Soothed by his comforting hold, she gives in to the feeling of being safe in someone’s arms.

Then, without a warning, he kisses her. Hungrily.

It takes her breath away and she almost chokes on the intensity of it. It’s like nothing she’s felt before.

She’s throbbing now.

Everything escalates so quickly as if all hell has broken loose.

Her tongue flutters against his, and you could almost think she’s done it a billion times already. Her fingers grip his soft hair, pulling him closer, her strong legs straddle his waist. Her body is her traitor, acting like that with no permission from her brain.

His hands tighten on her bum now, and another thrill shoots through her.

As if sensing it, Jerome’s kissing gets even more urgent, his teeth clinking against hers, the taste of alcohol at their tongues well mixed together by now.

He loosens his grip. His fly is now unzipped all of a sudden, and he tries to slip his hand between her legs.

Noticing a change in the vibe, she pulls away suddenly, adamant her virginity shall stay intact tonight.

A dangerous spark flashes in his eye for a split second, and he pulls her so hard she lands on his chest with a thump.

‘Hey, stop it! I don’t like it!’ A protest escapes her mouth as a chill of fear travels down her spine.

‘C’mon. I know you want it, babe.’ A demaning growl comes out as he now presses his weight onto her body locked against the wall.

‘No, I fucking don’t.’ She shouts back, and, in one swift movement, frees herself from his grip, landing her clenched fist where it will give him a big black eye, and runs away, thankful for all the self-defense training her dad made sure she did.

***

The chilly night air is refreshing and sobers her right up when she storms out of the club after the incident.

She lights up a cigarette and takes a big long puff, doing it so ceremoniously as if it were pure stardust she was inhaling.

As the smoke spreads through her lungs, Jerome's taste in her mouth fades way, and the whole event becomes but a distant memory, save for the prickling skin where fresh hickeys are darkening into all the shades of purple.

She straightens up, pulls her chin up high and walks off in a confident trot as if nothing ever happened, knowing perfectly well she's due to spend a lot of time overthinking every detail of the night until it's about to eat her up from the inside, at which point she'll finally let go and earn a new level of strength she’ll be able to take pride in.

***

Through the incredibly busy streets of Shoreditch and preoccupied with her spinning thoughts, it's only once she reaches her street that she realises she's lost her keys.

‘Shit! Shit! Shit! The middle of the night and I ain't got no keys... And my phone is about to die as well... And I was almost raped not so long ago... Fuck my life! What else could go wrong?’ she mumbles to herself, her frustrated voice drowned by the surrounding noise; the ever-beating heart of London.

The alcohol and weed have pretty much worn off by now, and with the high gone, she finds herself unable to stop tears from rolling down her cheeks.

Then, as if in an answer to her question, the sky begins weeping alongside her tears.

With no better idea in mind, she drags her feet towards the nearby Tube station, one of those fluorescent mouths that eat up swarms of dark silhouettes each day.

***

‘Hey, you, young boys on the escalator, you're about to set my fire alarms off. Put that spliff away, please.’ Echoes through a metallic voice when she walks onto the moving staircase.

She can see those guys. They petulantly hide what they've been smoking away, and then get on the same carriage as her when the metal giant rolls in.

Watching their once animated conversation die away, she relaxes in her seat, letting the strange loud buoyancy soothe her wretched mind and tense muscles. ‘This movement and the noise - I wonder if this is how it felt in the mother's womb, the whoosh of the blood in her veins and the sway of her walk and all that...’ She ponders as she gears up for a long ride, deciding that she'll spend the night on the train, appreciating its warmth and dryness, and worry about the rest later.

Some hipster in a bright orange puffa jacket gets on and hangs up a hammock in between the red handrails.

‘Damn, boy. You gotta lemme have a quick snooze in there.’ She is about to say, but something in his gaze stops her in her tracks.

Suddenly aware of the slight jealousy her stare is giving away, she looks around and notices how much life there is to all the faces around her as well.

It's so unlike daytime Tube rides when the crowds of all classes and races that float past you bear no expressions - all sunk in their own dreams illuminated by the blue light of their handheld screens. You can either look at them directly, or, more often, stare at their reflections in the windows, and still not be able to read anything from them.

Yet now, it's like nightime emboldens everyone like a cheap wine.

There’s the bunch of female twenty-somethings, all dolled up and scantily clad, jittering away in such a blend of loud voices that it all turns into one high-pitched string of words.

Then there’s the young couple having a conversation in the kind of mellow tones people on their first dates do. Their body language shows they don’t know each other very well too - such a stark contrast to the couple on the opposite end of the carriage.

Them two look like they’ve weathered many storms together, her pretty face framed with cornrows resting comfortably on his broad shoulder.

Then there’s the French homosexual in his drainpipe jeans leaning against the red metal pole, his face all flushed up from whatever it is he’s been up to this night.

That same pole is also held by an Englishman, all suited and booted, sending a contemptuous gaze of superiority from under his flat cap.

Then there’s the African guy emitting a vibe not to get too close.

And then the two Bulgarian toughs, their mouths droop with exhaustion, sticking out like a sore thumb with their construction site uniforms stained with mud and paint.

A beggar with scraggly ginger beard asking for spare change drifts past at one point.

And then there’s all the other people that come and go, only sharing a few brief minutes together on that Tube journey.

And she watches them all, finding comfort in seeing all the diversity that reminds her there’s space for everyone in London.

After all, this city is a sea of opportunities. They come and go like the ebb and flow of all those silhouettes in the platinum carriage.

The sun will rise again tomorrow, there’ll be new chances for the grabs, and the rollercoaster of life will slowly climb up to the top again. And if it then takes a mighty tumble down the hill again, so be it. It’s so much better than life unlived after all.

***

Reassured by her comforting conclusion, she lets the rumble of the train lull her into a wakeful snooze until the morning comes and it’s time to leave the transcendental train ride behind, re-emerge on the surface, and make her way to work.

***

What she doesn't realise as her feet take her up the stairs, is that each heavy step gets her closer to yet more misery.

She's about to loose her job.

And then become homeless for falling behind on the rent soon after.

Rolling her suitcase-worth of belongings down the street, she'll then bump into Jerome again, who will have been stalking her since the night in the club (when he stole her keys with the intention to burgle her flat but found nothing of value there).

Blinded by her misery and ignoring the looming potential danger given what happened that night, she'll accept his offer to stay at his place for a while, only to get caught up in his games and make a run for it soon after.

And from then on, she'll go on hitting the absolute rock bottom, time and again.

But she won't let London crush her.

London will make her.

It will transform her, with the moon watching over and mirroring the process by growing small, hiding away and then becoming whole again.

And then she'll rise like the Phoenix from the ashes and pour soul back into her body, ready to grab life by the short and curlies.

Then one day she'll be walking past that grubby nightclub, the memories of what will feel like a past life flooding her, and she'll once again thank the Universe for putting her through all the trials, each of them enabling her to hand over parts of herself that used to hold her back from her true power. She'll ponder how these disguised blessings made her befriend all her demons and embrace her shortfalls, all alongside growing to love the ugly sides of London - the dark canvas for the beaming stars to shine against.

A journey of glorious self-discovery, all because she once had the audacity to think her hometown wasn't enough for her. All because she was willing to let the pain, weakness and defeat into her life over living it bland in a privileged safe haven away from many of the world’s problems. All because she knew enlightenment waited at the other end of the curvy road, and the greater the twists and turns in one’s Unalome*, the brighter the light at the end.

*Unalome - a symbol in Buddhism that represents the path to enlightenment which consists of many ups and downs.