New Animal, Ella Baxter [best books to read for success .txt] 📗

‘I am really, really, really not coping.’ I can hear my own ragged breathing circling around my ears. I can turn the sound up or down but not off, and I wonder if it will be with me years into the future, because it feels permanent.

The bouncer shifts his position and gives me a quizzical look, while Leo extends his shirt towards me. I remain still. He covers me with it and takes my hand, tugging my arm gently until I stand. Leo gathers my clothes into a pile and holds them in one arm as he helps me limp slowly towards the steps, but the bouncer jogs over and blocks our way. He’s frowning but also seems thrilled to be required to leap into action tonight. All that training, all those eighteen-dollar Muay Thai classes, will finally pay off.

He says to Leo, ‘You can’t interfere with a performer while they’re on stage. Get down.’

Leo looks to me for input, and I close my eyes in response.

‘She’s freaking out—I need to get her out of here,’ he snorts, a tinge of aggression in his voice.

The bouncer rolls his eyes. ‘It was obviously going to be a fear scene. You need to learn to recognise the art form.’

‘She’s never been to a club before and it’s her mother’s funeral today. She told me she’s not coping.’

The bouncer looks to me. ‘Your mother died? Oh lord, I cannot imagine what that must be like.’ He puts his hand over his heart. ‘My mother is my backbone. She is my life. I would die for that woman. What are you doing here? You need to be next to her! This is no good.’

‘I want to go home.’

The bouncer steps to the side and Leo, victorious, yanks me towards the bathrooms, stomping down each step. We hold hands loosely, not really signalling connection or romance, but more as a way to match our strides. In the bathroom he hands me my clothes and washes his hands at the sink as I check the stalls for a toilet that still has its seat attached. I find one and sit down heavily, flinching when my sore thighs hit the cold metal. I can still feel the inversion from him imprinted inside. My body is swollen and throbbing, and I blink a few times, trying not to cry. I inspect my vagina for damage, and wipe myself, but I can’t see any blood on the paper. Dressing is painful, and when I come out, Leo is leaning against the wall waiting for me.

‘It’s not too bad.’ I let the sentence hang.

‘Good,’ he says, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Good, good.’

On the way home, I recline the seat and try to sit with my weight resting on the outside of one thigh, to avoid putting pressure on my welts, but it’s still uncomfortable.

‘I probably went a bit hard for your first time. It’s just that you seemed into it, and I figured you would have said no if you weren’t.’ Leo looks over to me, but I’m so far away I can barely understand him.

‘So, you might feel a bit down for a little while—it’s called a sub drop. You had the high, and now there’s a low. Sugar helps. Keeping warm, cuddles, me telling you it will be alright …’

‘Are you telling me it will be alright?’

‘If you’re interested in learning more, or if you want to debrief about what happened tonight, they hold workshops at the Widow Maker—it’s a clubhouse for kink, you can go there any night of the week and play.’

‘Hmm,’ I say, looking out the window.

‘Or you can contact me again, I guess. I usually try to avoid aftercare as much as possible, as it kind of impacts on the experience for me.’

I don’t respond, because I can’t really be expected to talk or move now. Maybe I should ask him to slap me, like they used to do to newborn babies who were silent. I feel even more removed from myself, drifting further and further away. I wonder if Leo feels as distant as I do. Should we even talk to each other at this many paces? Or should we just gesticulate wildly?

My poor body. I shift again, trying to find a comfortable position, but it’s useless. I wrap my arms around myself as my heart continues to knock against my chest, as if it’s desperate to get away from me.

CHAPTER TWELVE

At home, I peel out of my clothes and toss them into the corner of the bathroom. I run the shower, letting the ensuite fill with steam until it’s cloudy, then step carefully into the recess, closing the glass door behind me with both hands, so that it doesn’t make a sound. The welts sting as they come into contact with the water, and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, but it doesn’t ease the pain. I let myself remember the moment when the whipping was so intense that the grief had gone. My feelings, which were shoved to the outer by the hot pain, are once again running riot through my system. Therapy suddenly makes sense. I could talk them out, feel them trundle from my oesophagus to my tongue until, finally, I could spit them onto the floor of a therapist’s office. Or I could take drugs, wrapping them up in a chemical blanket. Place little happy masks over their faces. I could even birth them through my pores, through exercise, like Judy suggested. Anything. I will try anything to get these feelings out.

I kneel on the shower floor, lifting my hips so that my thighs are not in contact with anything. Hot water runs over my back as I grip a bar of soap, rubbing it between both hands until it foams into silky bubbles which I push into the folds of my body. Back of my heel. Forearms. I stay kneeling and washing until the water runs cold.

I wrap a towel around