“I Should Avert My Gaze” - transcript of inaugural radio show with Seyðisfjörður radio, 09/08/24

I am walking down the corridor of the apartment above the gas station. The light overhead hasn’t been switched on, so the walk is grey and speckled, a faint trickle of orange out the cracks under the two bedroom doors. They’re in the one immediately on my left as I step out from the living room. His brothers bedroom is at the end of the hall, but I never reach it. It’s raining outside and I can hear it through the walls.

I run my hands over the wall paper in the hallway, it’s graining under my finger tips, and I follow the indented curve of the patterns swoops and dips. I can’t see the pattern in the dark. I hover and trip over piles of trainers and boots thrown all over the carpet, I bring my sleeve up under my nose as I move along. 

I wait outside the bedroom door for a moment, my hand coming up to rest on the pane around the outside, rubbing my finger along a splinter in the wood and plaster. I am breathing low and deep, my breath catching each time I think a little more about where I am. My head feels so warm, my pulse rising up into eyes and my cheeks. I run my hand now up the velour of my trousers. I hear muffled noises through the door, of course, I press my face a little closer. Hesitating because of my hesitating. I am so aware of my body heat, so aware nobody is looking at me.

I crack the door, and it squeaks ever so slightly as I push it open, stepping into the room. I am not wearing shoes and I can feel the carpet under my toes. I am stood in the room now and I am staring straight ahead. It’s cleaner then I thought it was going to be. I’ve seen the documentary, I know what his basement bedroom looked like, but this isn’t his basement room. He cleaned it ceremoniously. The electricity has gone out (no wonder the hallway was so dark) and the room is littered with candles. There’s a pillar candles on each bedside table, the one nearest me is next to a large ceramic ashtray. A trail of smoke bleeds up from the freshly put out ciggie and the candle next to it, meeting in the middle and twisting up towards the ceiling. I stop watching the candle now, and look over to the two of them sat on the end of the bed in front of me. 

The bed is in the middle of the room, propped off the floor by a woodbedframe with no headboard. It’s right hand side is facing me. Behind the back of the bed, the wall is covered in posters, fade i’m on  d and peeling and overlapping and overhanging. Phoenix looks down over the two pillows, creased and laying next to each other. The bedding is black, with a cloud pattern, each cloud outlined in pale blue. 

The two of them are sitting on the end of the bed, so I can only see them from the side. He is bigger then him, and closest to me, so he blocks him with his body. I can only see a few curls on the back of his neck that move ever so slightly when he talks, and his hands tangling in front of him.

I can hear his voice, I’m sure, but his accent isn’t right. I know they’re both American, but I can only think in an English accent. I know how they both sound, so why do they sound like me? It’s not right, I can’t make out the words they’re saying, so I take a few steps towards the edge of the bed, dragging my heels like I normally do. I am standing over them now, I can see the tops of their heads.

I want to see his face, I want to see his face. I take a step back. I am watching now, I am listening now, his shampoo smells like apples. His hair shines slightly in the glint from the candle.

I can smell the inside outside too, which often is so comforting, but it just reminds me I can’t remember where I came from. My clothes are dry, but I can reach out and touch a pair of wet jeans and boxers with the tip of my toe. It’s raining, I hear the rain. I feel sick. I bring my hands up to my mouth like I might throw up, but it’s fine.

“Also, your candles about to fall over and light the desk on fire” 

“What?”

I hear myself laugh in the back of my head, but I don’t open my mouth to make a sound. It’s so weird because I’m sure I’m standing right here. 

I am lying in my single bed, and she is lying there next to me. I am wearing a knock off merch I got from a guy after the show selling T-shirts laid out on a black bin bag. Me and her have (had) matching ones, but I can’t remember what she is wearing. I used to be so embarrassed about my pyjamas, so she must’ve been wearing blue checked bottoms and a top. I really can’t remember. She is dead silent. Her eyes wide and looking at me, staring and searching. Her lips are clamped shut, but I see her breath push up against them like she is trying to open them. Her eyelids close slowly and open even slower. I see her throat rise and fall.

I call her name

I shake her and press her shoulders and pull her hair. Her hair was darker than mine, and shaved on one side. It was purple once, we had purple hair at the same time. It curled so nicely even with the dye. Oh, in pictures it’s straight. I remember it being curly. She would shave the side in her brothers bathroom, using his clippers, and after would wrap her fingers around my palms, bringing my hand up so I can run my fingers over the side of her head. I pull on the long parts of her hair, and push my fingers into her arms. I call her name. She shakes her head, and if I’m lucky I hear a squeak. I am crying and I call her name. I turn the light off. 

She rolls over and flips me onto my back. Silently she brings her face down to meet mine, I say her name and she opens her mouth, finally, but she doesn't reply. 

My bedside table is a shoe box I kept drawings and letters in. I have a purple pillar candle I bought for £1 on top of it, but I hadn’t lit it.

He’s chewing on his lip 

“It doesn’t feel real”

“No it doesn’t. We’re inside a bubble. Everything else is gone, or it’s us. We’re gone”

I dig my toe into the soft rug of the carpet and start rubbing my hands over my thighs again, my trousers soft. Everything is so soft and the light is so comforting. I can hear my breath again, the embarrassing heavy exhale from my nose. I start shifting on the spot, hoping to make some noise over the sound of their voices. They’re so enthralled with each other, their eyes looks up and over each others faces. His eyes on his lips, his nose, his ears, where his fringe falls over his forehead and meets his eyebrows. I feel the heat coming up from their backs and chests. I can still hear my breathing in my ears. 

I am so sick of feeling my hands on myself. Of hearing my own voice when I know it’s theirs. 

“No, fucking listen: stop thinking ahead” 

He flips him into his back and presses down on top of him. I should take a step back, I should avert my gaze. I tap my own fingers and count them. Watch them, my jaw slack. This is so embarrassing. My tummy rumbles. My face is illuminated by my phone in the dark. I hear her, all the various hers, sigh and cough and roll onto their sides. I don’t look away.

Neither of them notice me, don’t untangle or stop. 

I am in a yellow hall, that sits at the top of a large stair case. The bottom floor of their house is light, with floor to ceiling windows. It’s old and new at the same time, and their kitchen is big. Once, they had a snake called Rose, and for a while they looked after some tortoises. The hall stops right by her bedroom. When you come up the stairs, there is the bathroom straight in front of you. The bathroom was sort of normal and the toilet was on your left as you came in. The house had these large wooden doors. Theres a sharp turn to get to her room, right down the hall but not all the way down. There was a chair I think, just outside her door. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. I won’t be there again. 

I followed her into her little brothers room when she couldn’t sleep in her own bed. He was gone, so was the other brother. She curled up in the corner, and cried and rested her head on my arms as I reached my hands out to her. We sat there together for a while, and we talked. His room was so blue, and the light from the street fell through the curtains and made it even more blue. I would listen to Tracy Chapman in the car on the way home. I’m listening to her now, I miss her voice, like it’s up inside me somewhere and I’m clawing at my chest trying to get to it. My mums car was blue. 

Escapism into a world without women. I’m sure I can blame so much of my shame on this, but it’s too late to go back and learn something new now. 

I watch their skin blurr and glitch and tattoos come and go as I remember which ones he had in 2004. I shove my hands in my pockets, dig my nails into the sides of my fingers. The carpet is covered in vague paintings and drawings. They rustle as the bed moves. 

I snort at the bad writing. I’m sure he wouldn’t say that, I’m sure he wouldn’t think that. I’ve said it outloud this time. I imagine one of them stopping, and looking up from where he’s settled and contorted and warm, and looking at me for the first time since I got in the flat, I mean the apartment (how did I get in the apartment?). He looks me in the eyes, his hand flat on his back and tells me

“You don’t care if it’s good. It just matters that it’s there”

But of course this isn’t what is happening. That is just what I imagine when my mind drifts a little. This one is well written enough to let me pay attention.

I sit down crossed legged on the floor now. There’s a half empty bottle of something by the leg of the bed, which I reach out and grab. I can feel it in my hands, the smooth glass and slight plastic label peeling at the corner. It’s in a language that I can’t understand, but the label is red and the liquid is clear. I feel the grooves on the cap, and push my fingers into it. I twist the cap off and run the jagged edge along the back of my hand. The skin doesn’t break. I hold the bottle up to my nose, and breathe in deeply. One of them makes a sudden, urgent noise. I look up. The smell hits the back of my throat and I laugh and cough a little. I bring it up to my lips, and throw my head back, my throat moving already like it’s eager to swallow. Nothing comes out, I taste nothing. I shake the bottle and swig again. Nothing. I put it back under the bed. I lean back on my arms, pushing my hips out a little, and there is something sticky under my palm. I wonder if I did actually throw up, if that would make them look over. I’ve read this one before, sick isn’t a big deal. I just watch a little longer. 

“I’m tired of counting sheep to see her, I sleep because I need her”

It’s getting too hard to describe, it’s all so long ago. But I’m right there, I’m right here. I reach down and pick something off the floor, it’s writing. Reems of words and writing. It’s in a language I can’t understand, I pull it right up to my eyes. I can’t read it but I can remember. It’s still there after all. I’m not sure she’s asleep. Oh, it’s night time. The curtains were purple velvet. I see the light from her phone pushing up through the pink bedding, a little lump where her body lies. She’s always much skinnier than I remember. I wonder if it’s before, or if it’s after. I can hear her breathing. 

His bedroom is just to the left as he leaves the bathroom. As if he is looking at the room from the entrance, the bed is on the left up against the wall and has a black faux leather frame. The bed is off the ground, the mattress is soft and older. His fitted sheet is white, and he has two pillows next to each other on the double bed. His pillow and duvet case are white. He has a window on the opposite wall, that is a typical crossed cross window shape, he has heavy curtains. He has a brown wooden dresser and a clothes rail. His bedside table is a dark vintage wood, with three pull out draws. There is a red plush upholstered chair in the corner next to the door. This chair can be pulled easily next to the bed.

I am already in the middle of the room. I’m wearing ceremonial robes. I smell like incense. I am wearing black skinny jeans and a black top that pulls tightly over my arms and my chest. My chest is flat. I’ve cut the neckline out of my top and I’m wearing a bra one cup size down. I’m wearing fishnets and a very tiny skirt. My top is black and tight. I am wearing platform boots. I am wearing slippers. I am wearing a white button up shirt and a red tie. I am wearing pyjamas bottoms with rabbits ON them. I am kneeling by the side of his bed, my hands clasped in front of me. My robes rustle as I get down. The stole catches under my knees as I lean forward, and I tug it out so it rests, crumpled right in front of me. My hands are partly covered by the detailing along the edge of the Dalmatic. I wiggle my arms until it falls back to my elbows. I can feel the thick embroidery of the cross pressing into my chest as I take deep, hungry breaths. Oh, god it must hurt, I say as I watch. I’m so jealous. 

I am standing by his bedside, really watching now, I know what’s coming next. He is laying on his bed on his stomach. He’s screaming, low moans and high pitched wines. He is trashing as the skin in his back splits, starting at the top of his neck, and sliding down under hisT-shirt, running down his exposed lower back and disappearing under his tracksuit bottoms. Thin, slick, jagged lines. His hands are spread across the bed, trying desperately to grip at the sheets, which are turning orange, and sliding wetly out his grip. His face is pressed into the pillow now, muffling his voice. I didn’t realise my mouth was open. I twist my sweaty hands into my robes. I come back to myself. I stand next to the bed, idly. I can’t do much more than watch.  What a treat. I’ve thought about this for over ten years now, jealous, wishing he would come and lay his healing hands on my scarred shoulders and legs. 

BEEP is in the room on the other side of the bed, so we shadow each other. I look up and try to catch his eyes. Funny how I forgot he was even in the room. I guess I only really had eyes for the two of them. He’s screaming too. I can’t hear anything over the sound of them shouting. I start to try to tell him to relax, that’ll it’s only words, that he doesn’t even exist on page, just words on a screen, to breathe and let the next sentence pass. 

How can they watch this? They hate me 

“BEEP, what is it? Are they still here?Who was it?” 

“It wasn’t anyone, BEEP it wasn’t anyone. There was nobody here” 

I lick my lips, and taste nothing. Not skin, not lipgloss, not wine, not metal. Nothing. I bring my fingers up to my face and when I bring them away they are red. I suck my fingers into my mouth, I taste nothing. I look down at the robes and they are striped with blood. I look up at him, he’s taken off his glasses and his face is tear-stained and striped all down one side with blood.

I am sitting on the bed, it hurts to even recall it. I can remember the faint memory of what it smelled like: the heat through the windows, the shower after it had been used, my perfume on my clothes, their perfume hanging in the air. It churns my stomach. I am apologizing, like always I’m sure. Guess what I did wrong, you’re probably right. Part of me feels like I should tell you what the room looked like, what the flat looked like, where the doors are, where the cups went, the little corner where I was allowed to keep my bag. What a gift that you never had to go there. I think I’ll just let myself forget this one. What a relief. It would’ve been so good to watch my clothes soak up in the blood, any tiny access to something that I like.

A long building, blue squares and windows. It looks like you cut out a corner of a British school block. An architectural decision I’m sure. Large windows that rise up far higher than my head. Mirrors on the ceiling, I laugh. The ceiling is a wooden floor. The floor is a gray speckled linoleum. The floor is uniform throughout the building. It’s like a caravan in the way it’s built, long and shallow. There is a hatch in the wall as you come in, to the right. The kitchen is all along the wall directly in front of you. There is a small office behind the hatch. The office is full of old electrical equipment. The ceiling is a wooden floor. It’s a little cold. The kitchen is a dark, but warm, blue. There are orange stains on the black faux marble surface. Follow the kitchen unit along and come to two bathrooms. I guess one is probably a shower, or they’re both showers with a toilet in.

All the way back along the kitchen unit, next to the office, is a door. Pinned to the door is a paper sign with a handwritten note in black marker. I can’t quite remember what it said, even though I wanted to remember. Some parts of the messages are underlined. Behind the door is a utility room. There is a window up high, and a machine pushed up against the back wall. There is another machine in front of that one, blocking it slightly but so there is enough room between the two of them for a person to fit between in order to open the little round door. It smells damp, a sudden but lingering smell. The ceilings are so high, I always feel it’s a waste when buildings like this have high ceilings. I look up, tip my neck back. I exit the room. I exit the building. 

Bad writing aside, I try to replace the words in my head. 

“I would like you on a long black leash”

She pushes down hard, I loose my breath. I can’t remember like half of the times we did it, probably less. She is smoking in a fluffy maroon dressing gown out her large bedroom window. She had this beautiful living room, a vintage fireplace with floral relief detailing all around the edge. A wooden mantle with cards and flowers in a vase. A tv and a coffee table, an empty bottle of wine with a baroque painting on the label. I come to and she is ushering me into the bath. Her hair is blonde and short and curly, shaved all around the sides. I run my hands over the back of her neck. She is washing me. She is smoking a cigarette in the green bath water.

He is wearing the clerical collar. He is running his hands up his sides. I wish someone would look at me. I am thrashing and kicking, writhing my back on the carpet. I know that isn't his voice, so I call to him to tell him. Pulling on the leg of his jeans from the floor. I am crying now, the tears hitting the thick cotton of my robe. It keeps tripping me as I attempt to get on my knees. Don’t listen to him, please. I am begging for his attention. I turn around and punch my fist through the plaster wall. 

The light comes back on in his eyes, they step away from each other. I get up and stand in the middle of them, touching his face with both my hands, running my thumbs over his cheeks. I start speaking to him in Latin. He doesn’t doesn’t even react, looks right through me. He’s looking at him, staring hungrily. I knee him in the stomach. He doesn’t even flinch. As I bring my leg down, I trip on the robe for the final time and fall over landing hard and sudden on my back. I am looking up at the white plaster ceiling. 

I am walking down the corridor of the apartment above the gas station. The light overhead hasn’t been switched on, so the walk is grey and speckled, a faint trickle of orange out the cracks under the two bedroom doors. They’re in the one immediately on my left as I step out from the living room.  His brothers bedroom is at the end of the hall, but I never reach it. It’s raining outside and I can hear it through the walls.