Tap the window frame. Judge the acoustics. Devon was still bothered by the buzzing in her right ear. She stepped back and turned into the centre of her room. It was clean. The buzzing panned to her left ear, leaving the right to echo the sound it was now missing out on. All the tidying had been done before Iād even woken up. This London flat was Devonās safe haven, she treated it as such. A solo palace, where she thrived.
She paid 1,950 pounds a month. A big cost to find peace in the city. A cost that will slowly make her realise that the constant outflow of money to her landlord will make it nearly impossible to save up for a place of her own. The buzzing increased and transposed 12 tones. Tap the window frame. Judge the acoustics. There...wait... yes. The ringing had final given up. She could now hear the silence.
Rap shows werenāt her sort of thing. Nonetheless, Devon thought it would be a cool place to take Finn. Heād expressed interest in the 12 piece rap collective GIRLS LIKE SHOWS on many occasions. Even going as far as stealing the Aux cord at multiple university parties to personally promote the rap groups music. Finn would only survive half a song at most before a swarm of unhappy pop music loving party-goers separated him from the sound system, and on one occasion was thrown out all together to ensure that the glue between the sexes, materialised in the hosts carefully crafted playlist, wouldnāt be disturb ever again. Finn was Devonās uncool ,but that made him really cool, best friend. Iām fond of him, but I hated GIRLS LIKE SHOWS. Even more so, I hated that Devon liked them as well. Iāve been playing rap music around Devon since we started hanging out but not once did she ever express interest in the poetic verses I offered up. This 12 piece rap collective that Finn & Devon bonded over had the childish gimmick of painting themselves purple! Whatās that got to do with Hip Hop?
Finn & Devon met in their first year at Kings College. They studied different subjects, ate at different lunch spots but both grew up in London. They shared a love for books. With Finn it was hard to know if this love was genuine or if he just valued being seen with a book in his hand. For Devon, reading was a ritual, a solo religion. Reading a lot of literature would end up justifying Devonās whole demeanour to me. She loved ideas that werenāt her own and that gave her sense of connection to the ideas of humankind as a whole and felt autonomy in imagining the imagery that the author laid out for her. This is
how the relationship with her parents worked, theyād set up a life for her and all sheād have to do is desire a certain set of situational factors that would fit into the preexisting framing. Hence this London flat was viewed by Devonās Mum and then recommended to her as the āperfect place to start adultingā, while her Dad would proceed to give Devon 350 pounds every month as a way of finical support and stunting her independence.
I woke up that morning to find Devon starring at me from the foot of the bed. She must had only had about four hours sleep. It was the scent of cigarette smoke that woke me up when she returned from the gig at about five in the morning. She was soaked in the stench of her evening. It was confronting, to the point that it forced to me bury my head into my pillow and search for a new scent in the lining. Devonās movements on the other hand were delicate as ever, lightly tip toeing around the bed, trying not to make a sound. Almost afraid to wake me if you will, but please know, Iām really nothing to fear. And yes, the sounds alone didnāt bother me one bit, which is impressive, as Iām assuming sheād drank heavily that night- she always did when she was with Finn. Hell, for all I know she could of flown in through the window and violently ripped out her wings all before the smell of the concert gave the game away. The scent just arrived suddenly and I woke up. If you ponder on it for too long itāll end up haunting you. To just find yourself suddenly, with another presence in the room... That feeling turns me back into a child.
There it was again. Devonās earās, now in reciprocity both screamed. The ringing made her head aggravated, as if it was impossible to sit still. Her only resort was to literally shake her skull as a means to cope- the same movement she used as a sign of appreciation to the rap groups music the night before. What can you do when the problems inside? I could see her urge to throw herself on the floor but she suddenly gained some composure and refrained from doing so.
āAHHHHHā Devon moaned to the window in-passionately, trying to expel the sound from her ears.
āWhat? Whatās up?ā I asked, still getting accustomed with my conscience and the new day.
āThereās a loud ringing in my ear.ā
She had a speedy monotone delivery, now with her knees slightly bent and lent against the mattress at the foot of the bed.
āHow close were you to the speakers last night? My Dad got his tinnitus from standing too far to the left at a David Bowie concert. Itāll probably sort itselfā- āI know, ITāS FINE. Itāll sort itself outā.
Devon brushed me off as if it was my fault. Her tone demanded a moment of silence. Her expression cold, as if she didnāt want a verbal response. Instead just wanting to occupy a time and space that would act as a stage, where she could liberally perform her complaints about the suffering that sheās been forced to succumb to. She jolted her neck away from my direction towards the window behind her, the weight of her head following in quick succession, as if she hoped some magic power would fling me out of the window in response to this movement. Instead it left her awkwardly looking over her shoulder towards the window, leaving me with a profile shot of her face, as if she wanted me to marvel at the extremity of her jawline and not be able to help myself but to reach for the nearest camera.
I could sense hatred. I took the mental photo anyway for this reason. The hate was obvious and awkward. It engulfed the bedroom and bleed onto the mattress. It was as if I myself were that annoying buzzing she was trying so desperately to get rid of, as if I myself had both hands on her temples and were forcefully pressing inwards, trying my best to penetrate her skull with my thumbs. As if it were me screaming inside her ears.
Only then did I realise how tiny this bedroom was. The double-bed took up all the space in the centre of the room, allowing for only two narrow slits of walkway either side. At the window, by the foot of the bed, was a desk covered in organised clutter. Plastic pots and boxes filled high with undistinguishable belongings. The window donned off-white blinds, suitable for a detective to glimpse through in the climatic moment of some murder mystery. I only wish there were some mysteries out there for me to discover. The bedroom window looked out onto a block of flats across the road. The building was so tall and so close that you had to open the window and arch your neck upwards to see the sky. I used to catch Devon in that exact position every time she had a cigarette, her body contorted, gnarled and awkward, but her mind thinking of herself as the main character in a Hollywood film. This is
a mental image I should burn. How dare Polaroid pictures reduce people to their past.
I used to take pleasure in looking out to the windows of the flats and just observe another persons miserable inner city existence through another frame. I used to find people watching peaceful, but if you watch for too long you can no longer separate yourself from what you see. Those people, in their houses, and me in this room of mine, made me realise that I too am just one of them. One of the people. Obviously, but devastatingly so. Of course we are all people, and all but people we must be. I just hoped for more when I left Scotland. I hoped for a better life and for something better to be.
The thought of going to live in London made me think higher of myself, but once there, I was just another one of the miserable people. This is why I found it so easy to stay laying in bed for long on Sunday mornings, all before Iād be woken up by some ghost at the edge of the bed.
Devon swirled her fingers on the mattress.
I should of busied myself with another task but for reasons unknown I just sat there in bed and observed. I was sucked into the pattern of her actions. It was seductive but with a glint of malice in its intention. The circles she drew with her finger were small, but the motion was fluid, so much so that it made time slow and dangle on the precipice of coming to a halt altogether. Time was at the mercy of Devonās control. Sheās conducting ever note in times symphony. I could feel my heart beat. It was fast. Not the on set of a panic attack, just fast in comparison to the pace of the circles, to the room, just fast in relation to Devon. My heart beat might not of been irregular at all, but the trance she put me under pulled every part of the subconscious into calculated thought. My brain and body were running a race I couldnāt keep up with. I was just out of sync in some way or another that morning. I was made to feel alien to those surroundings, and some how Devon made it so. I could of sworn it. It was her doing. As if she were muttering spells over and over in her head until sheād glued down a solid mantra which would spark control of the bedroom and manifest my demise through making me an infant to an unforgiving terrain. That feeling, as I recall it now is at the edge of my understanding. Itās hard to justify with words. I felt anxious. I had never felt such a thing in Devonās presence before. It was her cold calm. It gave off a sense of performance that
morning which made me know I was being deceived. Why all of a sudden play calm when you just let slip that your ears are screaming? I wish she kept on complaining. I wouldnāt of butted in like last time. I wouldnāt be quick to comment. I would of allowed her to stage her complaints and Iād be a willing member of the audience, chucking roses on the stage as the curtains closed and be left begging for one more scene. I wish she screamed! I wish see gave into the buzzing. I wished for anything to take over the silence. I would of even taken another beating! It would of granted me some peace, it would of matched my rhythm, the thudding of my heart, the internal drum, and brought me back into the room.
I say another beating, she only ever hit me once. Okay, she hit me a couple times but on one occasion. It took place a week before that morning. Devon was drunk. I was drinking with her. She insisted on me doing so as she felt it looked bad for her to drink alone, so she insisted on baby feeding me the wine bottle. But who else is there to look bad for other than me? And I didnāt care! She got me drunk to help the way she viewed herself. I whole heartedly expressed this to her. She perceived this as an attack on her character and the foundation of her virtues so she proceeded to slap me a couple times. All directed to my face and neck.
To not hit back. To not be the a monster- to be harmless. Thatās characteristic of a true gentlemen right? And gentle I am, but pathetic I feel, and horrid is my head for still thinking about her after all this time.
Devonās index finger stopped tracing circles. She recoiled her hand away from the sheets. Her index finger was then left to drag along behind it, her knees pressed and then bounced off the mattress, as if never even touching the floor. She left the bedroom, as if flying away.
I woke up that morning not knowing why I upset her, but I was desperate to find out. Iād been living with her for two months at that point. I moved down to London four months prior to look for work on film sets. No real plan, just to get involved however I could. Iāve been making tea and coffee for actors ever since. I was only meant to stay with Devon for two weeks. But we started dating and had sex most nights, so me staying over every night seemed fair.
But that Sunday morning, something was different. Maybe sheād had enough of me. Maybe we hadnāt been having enough sex. Maybe thatās what I needed to do to earn my keep in that flat. My heart began to slow a little. Even when we had sex my heart never had a presence like it. Our intimacy was never hot headed and exhilarating like displayed in the countless sex scenes Iāve witnessed actors perform in warhouse studios, surrounded by wooden facade sets, while Iām holding there coffees that will grant them the energy to go again, another take, another chance at performing love in the hopes that this time itāll appear more real than the last. No, our intimacy was slow, a cunning dance, calculated but not in the clinical sense. Calculated in a way that made me feel as if sex with Devon was in some way connected to the natural formula of living. That there was no other choice but to comply. It felt written in the stars to the point that even a parallel universe would have us meeting at that coffee shop, in the same framing of circumstances, just with our genders swapped or something.
She was meant to be in a lecture, she studied History & Modern languages, which had a year of studying abroad. She desperately wanted a better reason for studying the subject but in truth a year abroad to study in Spain was the most gratifying aspect of the whole thing. As I write this Devon is probably in Spain as we speak, lent over a balcony somewhere- performing her Hollywood dream.
Her Mother is French so was raised in the language at home. Her Dad is German, and would teach her regularly all throughout her childhood, but German was the language that had to be a lesson. Devonās Dad spoke French and English also but her Mother only knew a few German fraises, and rude ones at that. Therefore, by default, French and English were the languages of the household, with German being the language of the summer house at the back of the garden. Devonās Dad made it his personal mission to get her speaking the language of his homeland so every Tuesday and Thursday at 6pm, between the ages of nine & fourteen, Devon would have an hour long German lesson in the summerhouse. In the last years of this ritual, when Devon was close to fluent, the 6pm meeting became a lot more than just language recital. Theyād read German literature, non fiction, and proceed to argue over the ideas. Sometimes going on over the hour to the point that the
dinner Devonās Mum had made would get cold. Overtime so did she.
After her parents divorce, Devon latched onto the German language. It became her weapon that she could use in the domestic battlefield against her Mum. At any formal gathering, Devonās parents would do a great job at putting on a civil performance. However, Devon would start war by speaking German to her Father, something her Mum hated. Devonās Dad would always be courteous by responding in English but nonetheless this made Devonās Mum start to resent her only child. To find yourself armed with a weapon of destruction and not to use it as tactical warfare in the domestic battlefield takes a resilience and virtue that Devon will always be blind to. For her, exercising power is no different than freedom itself. Only now do I realise the spell I was under is the same spell she put over her Dad.
So anyway, Iād been walking a long the river and went to get a coffee. I was reading Dostoyevsky. She approached me. I looked up from my book and there she was, hovering over me, with the tips of our shoes touching. To keep a grasp on formality I shifted back in my seat and gaged her eye contact but it was unnervingly focused. If I didnāt choose to find it charming it would of seemed nothing less than intimidating. It seemed she desperately wanted to make a friend that day. With every question she asked I could see her desires become more realised and it didnāt seem specific to me. It seemed as if she went to that coffee shop, on that day, missed that lecture, put on that lipstick and would start talking to any man, anyone who was sat in that chair, that my independence up until that point was now a book broken and burnt and that the role I needed to play wasnāt to be myself but to be in her story and be okay with revolving around her axis for the rest time to the point that Iād be begging for the Sun to concave and implode at every given moment.
In the first call and response I had already stated my name and that I had just come down to London from Scotland. It was the way she framed the question. She stated her name so I mimicked this gesture and mumbled mine. She then said in a playful and slightly wide eyed way
āSo...whatās happening in your universe?ā
It was a good tactic. It set a precedent for the rest of the conversation- if your willing to play with the framing then nothing can go wrong. She taught me a
lesson that day. Being coy or shy is to not be fully aware of person infront of you. My Mum tried to install this in me also. Devonās conversation that day was a breath of fresh air. She was the first person I spoke to in the big city while sober.
I think she liked the idea of a man with a book, I know so. When I admitted to her that I was thinking of giving up on reading I had in front of me she was visibly disappointed. I could witness the ideal framing she had of me in her head start to crack in that very moment. She even glanced around the room to see if she had made a mistake and arrived at the wrong chair.
The first night we slept together plays back in my mind with almost a nightmarish tone. Nothing to do with Devon, sheās objectively beautiful, but my mind has contorted the past into something corrupt. As all memory does, the supernatural quality to the mundane often presses too much of a burden on the mind. We canāt help ourselves but to feed our own fantasies to survive. Iād only been staying with Devon for two nights. I slept on the sofa in the living room. The kitchen and bathroom were down the hall with Devonās bedroom safely nested upstairs. That night, the first time I stayed over, sheād had an argument with her boyfriend. My memory fails me slightly, but the argument must of been so bad that he didnāt stay over that night. Iād gone to sleep in good time. I had a FIVE A.M start time the next day and was working as an assistant to a particularly difficult actor at the time (Iām always tempted to name drop but Iāll refrain from doing so). The sofa I slept on was originally advertised to me by Devon as a sofa bed, but as soon as I arrived for my first nights stay we realised this wasnāt the case. I wasnāt annoyed at this news particularly. It was hard to be frustrated at Devon, especially early on in our relationship. I was obsessed with her, so this sofa bed ending up just being a sofa that one could sleep on only added a new fun story for us to share. Coming to think of it, we had a big laugh about this that night to the point where it became no longer about the sofa bed and just some abstract short hand that helped us find comfort in each others company. I remember this pissing off her boyfriend but please know that I donāt believe Iām the reason for him leaving that night. Iām harmless and at the time was well intentioned. I wanted a free place to sleep. That was all. I was just one of the people.
On the second night I was willing to learn from my mistakes. I took away the big side pillows to have a bigger surface area to sleep on. Iād decided to sleep in my boxers which I refrained from doing the night before just incase someone came in, but with Devonās boyfriend gone I felt comfortable enough to do so. Something in me liked being in boxers with the knowledge that Devon was somewhere upstairs laying half naked just like me. The house was quiet. I could hear the silence and feel Devonās presence. This was a soothing feeling but made my heart beat fast. I struggled to fall asleep for about an hour, but fell deep into the vortex of unconsciousness once I did.
Iād must of been asleep for at least a couple hours. I snapped my eyes open which was queued by a sharp inhale through my nose. I was confused about weather my eyes were open or closed. It was pitch black and must of been around two in the morning. A new scent had entered the room. I popped my eyes open again to make sure I was truly awake wasnāt stuck in some lucid purgatory. I remember glancing upwards at the foot of the sofa. Thatās when I saw it. Stood at the foot of the bed was a silhouette nestled amongst the deep darkness of the living room. A feminine outline submerged in a void. A figure that seemed like a projection of my soul state or a guardian of my slumber. However, it stood in the same position as all the ghosts that haunted me from the foot of my bed as a child. It towered over me as I laid half asleep in my boxers.
āHeyā
Said the figure. So softly that the sound of the parting of her lips was more dominant than the word itself. She stepped forward, revealing herself to the room. She was naked. That part was almost easy to accept as if it made the whole experience fall even deeper into fantasy and therefore easier to define. I was lost for questions as their were too many of them washing around my brain. I was only able to focus on coming to terms with the image before me, and that was an impossible task. Analysing the present will always force you into the past.
Devon lent forward, crept her hands over the arm rest and placed her fingers by my feet. With the sound of silence now given the rhythm of shallow breath she stalked forwards and crawled up towards my torso. I tried to sit up but she interrupted this movement by resting her body weight on my chest. I forgot what intimacy was before that point.
Back to the Sunday morning. Now alone again in Devonās room, with the privilege of being upgraded to the glory of sleeping in her bed, I felt terrible. I used to feel her presence in that house but once a door was closed it was the division of different worlds. I noticed all the cleaning sheād down that morning. How did she move so many clothes into draws and tuck the hairdryer under my side of the bed without waking me? I must of had a deep sleep. You would think I was the one who went heavily drinking with Finn.
My feet were still wrapped under the bed covers, it must of just gone eleven oāclock. It was definitely time to start moving. My body was sweaty. I felt glued to that bed, I didnāt want to face the world. I didnāt even want to pee. Even the thought of going downstairs felt dangerous. I always felt as if she looked down on me if I slept in. To her, too much sleep was anything over eight hours a night and she saw anything more as overly indulgent and a waste of life. Maybe Iād not cleaned the kitchen to her liking. Maybe our timings that week were set at completely different tempos- hers a heart beat, mine a clock. As I look back at this moment of thought, I believe it to be only right that this was the worst depression Iād ever faced. And it only lasted a mere moment. After my Mum died I still managed to go on walks to the local park with my Dad. But that Sunday I couldnāt move. What spell was I under that morning?
Then, chatter... I could swear it... I heard chatter from downstairs. It was Devonās voice, and that placed this noise into reality, not just some chatter in the skull. It was definitely her voice, but who on Earth was she speaking to? My Mum would have friends round for a dinner parties throughout my childhood years and me being too shy, no, scared to go down stairs would make me stay glued to my bed. I wouldnāt even leave to go to the toilet, just pee in some open container and empty it out the next day. Itās the images of the mind that we create for ourselves that hold us prisoner, and this chatter from downstairs seemed to chain my ankles to the bed. As I knew deep down what it was. Iād argued with Devon the night before, just before she left for the concert about how much sheād been seeing Finn. Thatās why she must of been mad at me that morning. Maybe she never had any ringing in her ear at all but
was using it at an excuse to not show off her annoyance about having to wake up next to me that morning. Maybe I should of stayed in bed that until I saw darkness from the window, but a darkness had already been imbedded inside the house.
But no, I thought. Be a gentlemen. A guest is downstairs with Devon in the living room. A space that you and her now share, and as a member of the house hold you should engage in the current conversation at hand. What are you? A child? Did your Mum raise a coward? Are you that impotent that you canāt get yourself dressed and go offer a guest a cup of tea? I unlocked my legs out from under the bed sheets. Still only in my boxers. I put on a white t- shit and black suit trousers and rocked into my slippers. A laugh... another laugh from the living room. A male voice, definitely a male. The chatter was only getting louder. Maybe they heard my movement upstairs and spoke louder on purpose, a cunning tactic to make me regret my courage and quickly retreat back to the bed. But no, I muttered it to myself. āYou go downstairsā. I could hear Devon and the male voice painfully clearly now, as if we were in the same room.
āYou said it was a fucking sofa bedā.
This statement was followed by a eccentric giggle. As if was some punchline to a meticulously crafted joke, but people only laugh at such mundane things when they are trying to develop a social short hand in order to feel at ease with one another.
This sentence was the on set of a distorted dream. This sentence landed like the another slap from Devon that was perfectly placed onto my cheek. This sentence made my brain thick. I physical ducked to move onto a new thought. To go downstairs. To go into the living room. To engage in conversation and face whatever figure you may be met with. Even when you know what monster lurks in the darkness, you should lay eyes on it just to be sure. And then it happened... I heard a buzzing.
At the bottom of the stairs, across the hallway, both of them there, framed by the living room doorway. They had big stupid grins on their faces, laughing about some silly pointless mishap of understanding. Devon standing there, a charlatan, performing for her audience of one. Pretending, with me in ear
shot, that this is the first time she had made this innocent mistake. It still isnāt a fucking sofa bed and never will be! I pivot adjacent to the door frame to get a view of inside the living room. There he was. Slumped down, arms rested wide on the sofa, with Devon hovering over him stood in the middle of the room. The two pillows from the sofa were still on the floor, as if somebody sleeping on the sofa that night needed a larger surface area to sleep more comfortably, only in his boxers. I knew it. How could I of been so blind! I should of left the night before. I was just one the people sucked into the pattern of her actions. I packed my things, left within the hour, and never saw Devon again.
I was just one of the people who would have been told that the sofa was in fact a sofa bed.
