Atomweight, p.11
Atomweight, page 11
“Uh, okay.” Fuck. I didn’t know what to say. I thought back to how my parents reacted. What had I done?
“How are you?” Sana leaned in examining the expression on my face.
I took a step back. “I’m fine.” I turned around and walked into the station, disappearing into the crowd before Sana could say anything else. Two days later, I attacked Asad’s lookalike in a pub near Holborn Station.
* * *
My first three fights mirrored Isaac Newton’s three laws of motion.
One, a taste. “An object will not change its motion unless a force acts on it.” Were it not for my parents finding out I was gay, were it not for the man at the bar pushing me down after an all-around shitty day, were it not for the immense lack of control I felt, I would have never shifted direction. I needed an external force to impose change and alter my path. Timing and circumstance led to my first fight.
Two, direction. “The change of motion of an object is proportional to the force impressed on it.” If the world around me hadn’t felt so hostile, if I hadn’t felt so out of control, perhaps the story of the fighter would have ended with the first. But the late-night YouTube videos showed me a path to regaining some of what I’d felt I’d lost. The fight at Southwark was a rite of confirmation, a commitment to this new version of myself. I was ready to rise to the challenge and become someone else.
Three, retribution. “To every action, there is always opposed an equal reaction.” I learned I could do more than absorb hostility. I could punch back, match my opponent’s blow with the same power. When I found myself at the pub near Holborn and saw the man who looked like Asad, I wanted to achieve balance, to right what I felt was a wrong. And since I couldn’t do it with Ayesha and Asad, that man had to do.
* * *
“The next station is Victoria. Change here for Circle and District lines, National Rail Services and Victoria Coach station.”
I’d escaped into King’s Cross Station, and now stepped out of the tube, head down, body crouched over, trying my best to not call attention to myself, occasionally raising my head to make sure I was going in the right direction.
Victoria Station was once two stations, operated by two companies and designed by two different engineers. It wasn’t until 1923 that the two halves were integrated, opening up archways in the walls that once divided it. But instead of feeling like one cohesive structure, it feels like two separate things forced to be one, despite its deceptively open space. There are few walls to lean on, few places to hide.
What had I done? I’d broken my own rules. The fight was close to LSE. I’d been to that pub before. That man didn’t really deserve it. And I’d never given him a chance to escalate. What started out as a bid for control was the total opposite.
I moved quickly, dodging people as I navigated through the openness. I looked around and searched for a live departure board. I needed a place to go. Anywhere far away from here. Several feet above me, I scanned the list of destinations. It was 21:38. The next train to Oxted was in thirteen minutes. I could make it if I ran.
The train was full, but not packed, mostly men and women in business attire, probably going home after a long day of work. I searched for at least two empty seats. I was afraid someone might stare, or worse yet, engage. As I walked along the train, I tried to clean up a bit. I wiped the blood off my knuckles onto my trousers and, facing one of the doors between cars, I readjusted my hair against the reflection. I did a lousy job. I needed water to make it better.
In the train bathroom, a rectangle-shaped mirror hung above a small sink. It looked greasy, like someone had tried to wipe it with a dirty cloth. I pulled back my hair and tied it with a black elastic on my wrist. My dark brown eyes looked hazy behind the maroon frame of my glasses. I moved closer and examined my face—my lips pale, the scratches on my neck now swollen. Maybe it was the train jostling about or the drinks from the pub, but I suddenly felt heat rise from the pit of my stomach to my head. I rushed to the toilet, retching, but nothing came up. Instead, tears ran down my face. I sat on that piss-stained floor, the smell of cheap disinfectant filling the air, without being able to tell why I was crying.
* * *
The next morning, I skipped the workout with Ginika and breakfast in the dining hall. Knowing the conversation my physical state and the fact I had not come home the previous night would start, I feigned sickness and stayed in my room all day. Texts and calls went unanswered. But I couldn’t avoid them forever.
“Aki! Aki!” Abby’s voice was punctuated by loud knocks on my door.
I continued to lie on the carpet, hoping she would go away.
“Stop that!” Ginika sounded annoyed. “Aki,” she said softly. “Is everything all right in there? We’re worried.”
I cleared my throat. “Yeah, all is good. Just feeling a little under the weather.” I opened and closed my hands. My knuckles were still swollen.
“Where were you? I mean, where were you last night?” Ginika’s voice was muffled by the heavy door.
“I just went for a long walk and ended up at an all-night cafe.” Lying was getting easier with each day. Soon, it’d feel just like telling the truth. “I got back around 4:30 a.m.” Even if they were suspicious, neither of them would be able to verify that.
“Aki, Abby here.” They whispered something unintelligible to each other.
“You can’t say that!”
“Fine, Ginika.” Abby paused. “Aki, are you coming down for dinner? Can we get you anything?”
“Thank you, but I’m not really hungry. I think I just need a good night’s sleep.”
There was a long pause. “Okay, then,” Ginika said slowly. “Call us if you need anything.”
“Yeah, Aki. We’re right here.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said preemptively. The bruises wouldn’t be gone, but maybe I would be able to come up with a plausible excuse by then. The longer I spent in my room, the more suspicion I would attract. Reality, no matter how dire, is easier to manage than someone else’s imagined problem.
Chapter 15
A week after the fight near Holborn Station, Sana came to see me. I was still holed up in my residence, my knuckles encrusted in dried blood, my ribs still sore to the touch. I lay in bed, throwing a tennis ball at the ceiling and catching it mid-air.
My phone was buzzing on the floor, the sound muffled by the carpet. This was the third missed call from Sana in the last five minutes. The phone rang again. She wasn’t going to give up. I picked up but said nothing. “I came to check on you. I’m in your lobby.”
I let the silence grow. “Aki, are you there?”
I could have told her I was coming down. I could have said I would sign her in. But I didn’t. I hung up the phone, put some gloves on and headed for the door.
Sana must have known me better than I gave her credit for, because when I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, she was patiently sitting in one of the Godawful green armchairs tucked away at the corner. She didn’t seem upset or distressed; she seemed to know that I would eventually come to get her. Even her outfit screamed optimism: a floral dress of hot pink and orange, with a baby pink overcoat. Little droplets of rain had collected on the shoulders.
I smiled at her. Her eyes softened and I saw what I thought was a glimpse of pity. I signed her in, noting down her name, the time she arrived and my room number. One of the less likeable security guards behind the reception desk looked at us and then winked at me. I tapped my access card and guided her through the double doors near the lobby. “Let’s take the stairs. I don’t want that guy staring at us while we wait for the elevator.”
My room was the neatest it’d probably ever been. Days in hiding had forced me to be creative about my projects. After I finished a couple of weeks’ worth of reading on modern philosophers and the Cold War and researched the situation in Somalia, I’d organized my belongings. It started with the books and my desk, followed by the clothes and shoes in my closet. It ended with the area near my bed, reorganizing the photos on the wall, removing—but not discarding—the few that were left of Ayesha. I couldn’t bring myself to throw away the photos I had of her. There was still too much left to process and understand. I hid them in a drawer in my bedside table, with the hope of one day being able to put them up again.
Sana took off her coat and laid it on my desk chair while inspecting the books on the shelf. A few weeks ago, she would have continued to undress. Now, she walked toward me and touched my cheek. “Let me see,” she said, holding up my hands and removing my gloves. Her cold hands felt like relief. Sana walked around me—she moved my arms about, lifted up my shirt, gently pressed against my bruises. She examined me like I was a patient and she was the doctor, only it wasn’t meant to be sexy.
“I had an accident with the weights at the gym.”
Sana looked unimpressed.
“Really! It looks worse than it feels.” I pulled my hands back and hid them behind my back.
“Have you seen someone? Did you go to urgent care?”
I shook my head, staring straight ahead.
“You should have.” She paused and moved in front of me. “But you already know that.”
Sana sat on my bed. She rubbed her hands together and looked up. In her gaze, I saw pity turn to sadness, and she looked like she might cry. For the first time since we’d met, I considered that she might actually have genuine feelings for me. It never occurred to me that it might be more than sex.
Outside, a group of rowdy residents leaving to watch a soccer match between Arsenal and Hull City at a nearby pub. The loudest one screamed for the rest to “hurry the fuck up.” I turned my face away from the window, moving toward Sana and the bed. She watched me, her eyes fixed on my feet. I sat next to her and held out my hand. Sana put her head on my shoulder and squeezed my arm. She nestled her face on my neck and kissed my knuckles, then my lips. I pulled away, holding her by her shoulders. I didn’t want any more trouble.
“It’s okay,” she said putting her hands over mine. “I know it’s the last time.”
Her voice was soft, but it lingered. The damage had been done. What did I have to lose? Sana kissed me again. My arms relaxed. I unzipped her dress and brushed it off her shoulders, folding it and putting it down on the floor. She lay down on the bed, expectant but passive. I lay next to her and traced the outline of her collarbone. We had never been this careful with one another.
She didn’t pull my hair or scratch my back. She didn’t scream. She just held on to me tighter and tighter until her body stiffened and twitched. Then she let go. I thought I heard a repressed sob but didn’t ask. We didn’t talk or look at each other afterward. We just cuddled—her head on my chest, her fingers tapping my stomach, our legs entwined. When the sun came up the next morning, the light glimmering purple through my cheap residence curtains, I watched her pick up the carefully folded clothes on the floor and dress herself. As she looked around, her eyes not focusing on anything in particular, I realized she might be saying goodbye to a place she’d grown accustomed to.
Sana kneeled down and put her forehead against mine. “Take care, Aki,” she said and walked toward the door. I turned to the wall—I don’t know if she looked back. There was a soft, barely perceptible click that reverberated in my ear. At each moment it grew louder and sharper, morphing into unknown shapes until it blended with other sounds.
My body still felt warm from her touch. I closed my eyes and imagined Sana walking down the corridor, into the elevator, out the lobby, down the stairs to Malet Street. I pictured her strolling down Tottenham Court Road and hailing a cab, because Sana could be extravagant. I saw her walking into her building and up the stairs to her apartment. I felt the coldness of her doorknob and the softness of the Persian rug in the entrance hall. And once I was done imagining her journey home, I promised myself I’d never think of her again.
Chapter 16
By the end of March, my dual life solidified: university student by day, reckless mess by night. My friends were there, but I avoided conversations that didn’t involve practical matters. They wanted to know what really happened with Ayesha, and why I never brought her name up anymore, but the last thing I wanted was to revive the night she caught me in bed with Sana.
“Are you guys taking a break?”
We sat on the floor of Abby’s room surrounded by piles and piles of clothes, unable to tell whether they were dirty or clean.
“Not really.” I turned to Ginika. “How are you and Kwaku doing?”
“I don’t know. We are still seeing other people.” Ginika gestured with air quotes. It seemed like Kwaku was stringing her along, but she apparently had no interest in anyone else.
“I’ve heard enough about Kwaku! The dude needs to make up his mind,” said Abby. “Besides, stop changing the subject, Aki. Why haven’t we seen Ayesha?”
“Things just didn’t work out, all right?” I heard the aggressive tone in my voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say it that way.”
“I don’t get it. You two were so in love until your parents found out.” Ginika elbowed Abby. “What? I can’t say that now?”
“She just means, you two looked good together.” Ginika tried to save face.
“Yeah, well, we are not together anymore. Now, can we change the subject?”
To myself, I began to justify my actions, to concoct stories. Ayesha and I were never official. We hadn’t agreed on the boundaries of our relationship. Her outing wasn’t my responsibility. They shouldn’t have been arguing about it when they knew Asad was bound to arrive. I told myself it wasn’t wrong to sleep with Sana. We were all adults. Nobody owned anyone. In fact, I had every right to do so.
In the past I’d been worried about too much, carefully treading around my parents’ feelings and thoughts—how they saw me and whether I met their expectations. Now, all that mattered was what I wanted. I wanted to fight again. And I wanted other women.
It began with Ahn, a half-Vietnamese student I’d met on my first day at LSE at a mixer for freshers. She wasn’t really in my group of friends but the International Relations program was small compared to something like Economics, and sooner or later gossip travelled to the whole class.
Ahn, who lived just a few blocks away near Gordon Square, must have heard I was struggling because she began to visit daily, bringing me food and spending time with me. I would have preferred to be left alone, but she was pushy and hard to turn away. Ahn was a couple of inches shorter than me, so when she examined my face, she tilted her head up slightly. Her brown, almond-shaped eyes always glimmered in the light.
“Have you ever considered you go for the wrong people?” she said one day, unpacking a paper bag of Thai food.
“What do you mean, wrong people?” I inhaled deeply. The aroma of peanuts and oyster sauce permeated my room.
“You know, like Ayesha and her cousin.”
I sat on my bed in silence. Ahn turned to me, but instead of looking in my direction, she stared at the floor. She made circular patterns on the carpet with her feet. I moved toward her and grabbed her face. It felt smaller in my hand than I had imagined it would. I leaned in and felt Ahn melt into my arms. Her lips were full and soft and tasted of peppermint Chapstick. I picked her up and she wrapped her legs around my waist. When I put her down next to my bed, I undressed her, starting with her black tank top and nude bra, then kneeling and pulling her cargo trousers to her ankles.
Ahn tried to undress me, but I pushed her hands away. “Not tonight,” I whispered.
I went down on her for an hour, maybe more. She came once, twice, three times, and with each I felt lighter but stronger. I decided sex, like fighting, was a tool to cope with the chaos around me. It was about power and about all the things I could still control. It had nothing to do with intimacy—I’d wanted to let Ayesha in, but couldn’t. I didn’t want to feel like I’d failed again.
After Ahn, there was Rose, Heather, Jenn. Students who became proverbial notches on my belt. We’d go out, we’d drink, and I’d end up in one of their rooms. I had learned my lesson about attachment, so I was careful to never give the impression I wanted something more than sex. I always left in the middle of the night and never talked about our sexual encounters in the daylight.
I went out on my own, to cafes, bars, clubs. I took to saying yes to most women I met. There was Giulia, a second-year drama student who was into vampirism and BDSM. We met at an inter-university LGBT event. I told her I’d be open to anything, except blood. Face painted white, she drew the curtains of her bedroom and cuffed my hands to the bed. Giulia grazed her teeth against my neck, her black and red embroidered corset rubbing against my stomach. “You’ll be mine for eternity,” she said, wiping her mouth as if she’d drunk my blood. I didn’t call her again.
There was Isabel, half Brazilian, who I met online. She took me to my first lesbian club in Soho and said she couldn’t tell whether I was into women. Isabel flirted with half of the people there, but we left together. We had sex in a small hotel in the West End because she lived with her mom and I had stopped bringing women back to my room, having discovered nudging someone out was much harder than taking off in the middle of the night. Despite her swagger, the sex felt average. I awoke in the middle of the night to find her trying to sneak out. She started to apologize and explained she had a girlfriend, but they were going through some stuff. I stopped her and said I wasn’t looking for more than a one-night stand. We left the hotel together.
On my way home, a drunken man tried to hit on me. “Hey, sexy.” His words were slurred. “Want to come home with me?” He was heavy-set, with brown hair and a scruffy beard. His receding hairline made it difficult to tell how old he was, maybe late twenties, maybe mid-thirties, maybe early forties. Too old to be hitting on a teenager.
