Roxy

I hadn't seen Roxy since I'd moved out. We'd had a clean break. It was hard for us, you know. She felt like I was selling her out, that I was being selfish because I couldn't live how she did anymore. Roxy never seemed to understand other people. She expected us to follow her lead and as much as I loved her, my life became something like a twisted game of Simon Says. And none of us ever had the guts to turn her down. You weren't allowed to turn Roxy down. She'd scream and yell and shriek and get violent and storm off and you wouldn't see her for a week or two. But even that was alright, because having Roxy be mad at you was a million times better than not having Roxy at all.
We'd had this huge group of friends. On a Friday night there'd be thirty people over at our place and we all knew everything about each other and we all depended on each other and we all had this trust. We were all best friends, but Roxy was everyone's best best friend. In a way we were all in competition for her affection and approval. It was pretty stupid, looking back. Roxy was just this skinny girl with dirty blonde hair who always wore ripped black tights and these great leather boots. She was everything you ever wanted to be. And I was her right-hand girl.
I'd known her for years and I'd never seen her sleep. You'd sleep at our place, and wake up at 4am and she'd be dancing around the living room, singing her songs with a cig hanging out of her mouth and all you'd do was join in with her. She just had this way about her. You'd have a serious, in-depth chat with her and she'd curl her knees up underneath her and watch your face and she wouldn't listen to a word you said but she'd nod along and say "Yeah...yeah but you're beautiful. You're the best person I know and you don't have to worry about anything..." and it worked.
She had some twisted theories on the ways of the world. We weren't allowed to watch the news when she was there, because it was propaganda and did we know that none of those things ever really happened? She said people watch the news and get scared of gangs and rapists and murderers so they go out and buy guns and shoot people accidentally and then they become the people they're scared of. Roxy was never scared of anything. She didn't believe that she could get hurt. She must have been once though, because she had these really thin white scars across her thin wrists. I asked her about them once and she pulled my face close to hers and hissed at me, "That's where I cut the handcuffs off, yeah. They're from when I got free."
When I first met Roxy we clicked. We became like sisters in a matter of weeks. We had our lives planned out. I was going off to work and get money and she was going to travel the world. She was going to rule the world and I was going to do the admin. I didn't mind much. Then, when there was no more world left for Roxy to rule, she was going to come back and we were going to live together and get a cat. "A fat, ginger cat who tells secrets," Roxy would say. I didn't have the heart to ruin her ambitious plans so I just sat back and nodded. I got a job. I'm smart. It didn't take a lot. Roxy was a bum. She lived in the flat I bought and drank my drink and smoked my smokes and played my music over and over again until she was word-perfect. Yeah, I had to give up a lot for Roxy. But so what? She was my sister and she was magic and I knew one day she'd pick herself up and sort her life out. It was just a question of when.
We were living in this dingy flat in the middle of Manchester city centre. It was a tiny one bedroom deal in the kind of place kids were warned against going to. It was good for us. Me and Roxy always shared the bedroom. We had a huge king size bed that took up nearly the whole room, and a wardrobe that was too full of crap to ever close. Roxy had covered every available surface with candles, on the windowsill and the floor and the top of the wardrobe and the headrest of the bed. I was into the whole Pagan thing and she just liked the flames. We had piles and piles of old sheets and blankets and towels that we’d spread in the living room for when people stayed over. They were usually too drunk or too stoned to care where they slept. Sometimes we’d have a proper sleepover, getting a take-away pizza and telling ghost stories while everyone was bombed out on acid. Roxy was always the story teller. She was the best at it. We’d had this friend, Matt. One time he started freaking out when Roxy held a torch under her face and began her story. He started screaming the place down, yelling and knocking everything over and we were all going “Shhhh! Shhhh!” but he wouldn’t stop so Roxy got him on this towel and dragged him out the front door and got him in the lift and left him. He didn’t come back after that.
I was working full-time at an insurance place in the city. I’d worked there for six months and still didn’t have a clue how to do my job. I bluffed my way through the hierarchy and shifted my mistakes onto other people and hated every damn minute of it. Roxy didn’t pay rent. She’d go around the student bars, dancing with people, getting them to buy her drinks, stealing their fags and then she’d burst in at 3am with a handful of student i.d cards. Sometimes she sold them on the streets, so people could get discounts and free drinks. Sometimes, if the pictures looked enough like her, she’d use them. We’d call her Jenny or Judy or Jane for a while, and she’d rush around the flat packing a bag or typing nonsense on my laptop or complaining about all the work she had to do as a student and we’d all go along with it. She’d get into bars she got into anyway and got discounts on things she usually got people to buy for her and she’d give everyone this fake name, introducing herself with a crazy back-story that changed after each drink.
I never understood why she wanted to be someone else. But she did, she really did. I was the only person she ever showed herself to. Once or twice she’d break down. One time I came home from work and I knew something was wrong because the only sound I could hear were these loud, painful sobs. It wasn’t the crying that told me, it was how they echoed – it meant no one else was home. There were no junkies, no dealers, none of our friends, no music playing, no boy she was in bed with. Roxy hated being alone. She surrounded herself with people and things to do and places to be because she just didn’t know how to just…exist on her own. I found her curled up on our big bed with an empty bottle of cheap vodka and a joint in her hand so I took it away and had a few tokes while I held her and let her cry. We were there for about an hour, I watched the minutes tick by on my watch while I rocked her. And then suddenly she looked up, confused, as if she didn’t know why she was here or why I was here or why the candles weren’t lit and she’d dress up in her highest heels and wink at me and take some money and go out on the town to meet new people to bring home.
This was the strangest time in my life. One the one hand, I had my straight nine-five job. I’d get up and wear my straight black work trousers and my straight white blouse and I’d make myself a straight black coffee and stand in my kitchen and look out of the window. Roxy would pad by on her way to the toilet, looking like a tiny fairy in her wispy nightwear and she’d stop and stare and me and spit “Straight” with such anger and venom. She hated that I was part of the “machine” because I was part of her, which made her part of the machine too. I’d leave my flat and take the lift and walk down to the bus stop and catch my bus and sit at my desk and make small-talk with the other straights. We’d talk about Barack Obama and pay cuts and healthy eating, the prices of the gym/petrol/food these days, the state of the economy, war, politics. Then I’d buy my usual salad and water from down the street with Fat Karen, who always supersized her meals, make some calls, shuffle some papers around and then leave my desk and get the bus home. There’d be people there. On a weekday it would usually be Kevin, a junkie Roxy met on the streets. He’d sell a bit and she’d buy a bit and they’d lay around the flat together doing fuck all. Sometimes Hobo Rich would be there. Hobo Rich was a uni student Roxy liked to keep around. He was something of a pet. He’d go out and buy food or booze or weed if anyone wanted it, then he’d sit around watching everyone have fun and not join in. Roxy christened him Hobo Rich because he always seemed to have money to throw around, but he dressed in the same brown chords and grey sweatshirt every single day. Sometimes he’d bring a few of his uni friends, who’d sit around skinning the worst spliffs and getting drunk. I’d sit down with Hobo Rich and share a pack of smokes and look around and wonder if Fat Karen secretly led a life like mine, too.