darker_london | My empire of dirt - Delilah

Delilah hadn’t been home at all since leaving Pierre’s house. That night she’d got on her bike and ridden as fast as she could down the almost-empty night streets, tears being stripped away by the wind. She ended up eventually in a dirty old bar where she downed enough shots just to take the edge off and then a few more to make it disappear completely.

The nice man checking out her lacy bra and cleavage under the jacket bought her some more drinks which she accepted and by the time she woke up hours later the bed she was in was completely unfamiliar and she was sore. Someone snored beside her and Delilah found her clothes and found her way out. She didn’t know where she was but at least her bike was out the front. She didn’t remember if she’d ridden it here or he had. Didn’t seem to quite matter really. She’d find out later- when she felt the too familiar pain in her skin while riding back into the city- that she’d cut up her arms at some point during her drunken stupor. Old habits die hard.

She tried not to think about Pierre. She tried not to think about Christopher. In fact, Delilah tried very hard not to think about anything at all. And when she sat down in an internet café the next night to post about finding a house and think about silly things she felt okay and blocked every emotion from her body.

She was cold and hard and when the radio started playing Johnny Cash’s version of ‘Hurt’ Delilah started crying and couldn’t stop. She left the internet café and sat on the sidewalk outside crying in deep sobbing breaths like she hadn’t let herself do for so long. She was the cliché: an emo goth girl in the gutter with streaked eye makeup and cuts up her arms. She ignored all the looks she got from people and just cried. She cried for Christopher, and she cried for Pierre, and- more than anyone- Delilah cried for herself.