#5 Anya

 Can't walk straight.

Eye swollen and tears streaming.

Stumbled into a young couple and scared the girl. I think she thinks I'm a beggar or an addict or something.

I don't recognise where the fuck I am but I must be near Grace's as the taxi driver took me here and only chucked me out early as he clocked that I have no cash.

STOP CRYING.

I smack myself round the face to liven myself up a bit. My brain is a merry-go-round fueled by gin, and more gin, and maybe tequila, and not cocaine for once.

I fucking hate him for ever making me do drugs. It made my heart palpitations so much worse, and I know my brother Joe hated me a bit more every time he saw me on it. And Gracie for that matter; I hate it when I let people down.

So I made a pact and tried to get clean tonight and get rid of him.

Harley Hunter.

Harley fucking Hunter.

Met him at 20, he was a drummer and his band used to play at Lenny's - my occasional choice of workplace. I felt him staring at me throughout his first set there, and I couldn't possibly count how many glasses I dropped that night under the pressure of his gaze; I was possessed. His head was lowered so his messy hair covered his eyes, but whenever he'd get really into the drumming his hair would swish back and his eyes would be fixated on mine, imploring me to look back; he was the nearest thing to Kurt Cobain I've ever and probably will ever see.

Too bad he's insane.

The first year was a whirlwind of sex and weed and more sex and I couldn't bear to leave his bed and so he told me I didn't need to and we moved in together. That's about when shit got real.

It started when I would come back from Lenny's late and he would ask where I'd been and if I was shagging Danny, my manager, and I'd tell him fuck off Harley you know he's gay but secretly wished I had been out shagging Danny because he's gorgeous and then Harley would sulk and start drumming furiously on the coffee table with the remote control and once I tried to grab it off him to stop it because you'll fucking break it and that was the first time he hit me.

Sharp and short backhand to the cheek.

He cried and promised it would never happen again and can we just have a spliff and forget it? so I would and he would and we would go to bed and it would be okay again for a few weeks. But like all sadists, he got a hit out of hitting and it became more frequent.
It would never be more than one blow to the face or body, or one push- enough to temporarily wind me but never more- so it was always easy to lie and hide it from people, not that I ever see people in the day time anyway but that's not the point.

The girls hated him anyway; Grace in particular. I don't blame them. He was rude; he would grunt answers to questions they asked him, and if he wasn't falling asleep he would be trying to kiss my neck whilst I was talking to them and I'd bat him off me and that would make him throw me a round a little bit later on. Not that I should be so lighthearted about physical abuse, but it never really hurt that much, and the initial shock went away after it became more frequent, and I'm not a masochist or anything but I figured if it didn't hurt that much I should just deal with it and let him hate himself a bit more every time.

Why didn't I just leave him then? Well that's easy. I was obsessed with him. I get obsessed with everyone. That's probably why I haven't had a serious functional relationship; I get bored after one shag if there's no passion, and if there is, well then it ignites something inside me that turns me a little bit insane, far too intense to have a proper relationship but just enough to keep me hanging on until it burns out.

With Harley it didn't burn out until last week; I can't pinpoint how or why but it just did. I woke up one morning after too much coke with his arms wrapped round my waist tightly, so securely that I didn't have a chance of squirming out, and so I just lay there for hours planning on how I was going to finally leave him.

And that leads us to tonight; one swollen cheek, the formation of a black eye and a broken rib later.

I had packed all my stuff, ie. a guns n roses t-shirt and a toothbrush, and left a letter on the bed (god knows I wasn't gonna dump his crazy ass in person). I had just got a text from Gracie asking me to stay over after finding her cunt of a boyfriend in bed with another girl, and I felt inspired to get out of this cesspit of a relationship once and for all. I told her I was coming over IMMEDIATELY and considered the best way to impart physical pain upon that douchebag Ben, who I'm almost certain touched me up at Grace's 23rd, and decided upon a fist to the testicular region; something I haven't had the pleasure of experiencing yet but that I'm sure would induce girl tears. Anyway, so I pour myself a few g&ts for dutch courage, as breaking up with a womanbeater and planning a man-beating all in one night is a little too much for sober Anya to handle.

So I'm knocking back my 4th when the door swings open and Harley stumbles in, out of his mind on ket or some other dirty drug I'm too scared to try, and he knows something is wrong straight up when he sees my overnight bag. I tense up a bit, I'm drunk but I'm ready for what's to come, and you know what, come and get me.

He walks towards me menacingly

Where the fuck are you going?

I answer stoicly, Grace's- I'm not coming back by the way.

He tries to hug me and cries into my shoulder, and mutters my name and tells me I'm all he lives for, and if I wasn't used to two years of this I'd probably cry too but I push him off me and make for the door. Needless to say that didn't go down to plan.

So here I am now, and I'm definitely lost on Grace's street that I've been to 200 hundred times, but I had to buy another bottle before I got here to calm my nerves. I've had worse injuries but this time I actually fought back, and it scared him. I caught his temple with my ring and drew blood and he let his grip on me loosen in shock and that's when I bolted through the door, and down the stairs, and across roads I'd never seen- even though I knew he wouldn't be following me.

And after begging a taxi to take me across London I think I may be outside Grace's door.

Fucking hell, if that bitch Becca is there already I might have to throw myself down Grace's 13 floors of stairs.