Extract from Vices

Maria Kelpi

Three Weeks Ago

‘Don’t you like me anymore?’

Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. Somewhere in the distance, she heard her mother laugh.

‘I do,’ she mumbled. ‘I do.’

‘Good.’ He spoke with harsh simplicity, shards of ice pricking her skin. 

Roman pushed her back down, a knee in the dip of her back as he lifted himself up and over her. A sense of dread flooded her stomach. 

It was happening again. 

There was no stopping a man that size. That hungry for her flesh. The flimsy shorts she’d worn now lay in a crumpled heap next to her, the strap of her pink thong peeking out from between them. It had been a week since she’d changed them, stained with pasta sauce, and a red lipstick she’d sat on. Fuck. Messy Enoch. Stupid Enoch. 

The heat of his body shielded her from the cold, but she couldn’t stop shaking. The duvet swallowed her cry as he wedged himself between her, filling the only hole that could not spit him back out. Roman took and took, his arms on either side of her head, locking her in his cage. Feed the animal within him and satisfaction would set her free.

It was over with a shallow grunt. 

Roman split her cunt like ripe fruit; his seed dripping down her legs. 

The duvet set was new. It was new. It was all brand new, and now it was ruined. His breaths were still heavy, chest heaving as he rolled to the side, pulling his jeans back up. Enoch didn’t move, and her open eyes still pressed into the bed. A clink of his belt. The rustle of the sheets as he slipped down to the ground. A caress of his breath on the damp skin of her neck.

‘Was that too far?’

A beat.

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’ 

Enoch tensed as the wet tip of his tongue tasted the droplets of sweat. He turned her over. A tear slipped down her cheek.

Monday, November 10th 

The emails were an endless trade of red alerts, pinging in the back of my brain. My hair was a tangle slowly turning into mat: the sour smell of curdled milk wafting from the abandoned cereal bowl on my desk. I’d valiantly ignored both variables, proud of myself for resisting the urge to splurge the dregs of my government finance on a black lace vest I’d had my eye on for all of two days. Depression was a fiscal virtue. I’d been holed up in my closet-sized university dorm for a month. Messages were muted and calls ignored. Any friends I had were too distant to care, and the ones from home belonged to Roman first. It had only been a few weeks since I left him – left us – behind. Two years of loved up labour. 

My phone lit up, the little blue badge of my email leering at me from the top of the screen. I swiped it up again and resumed my vacant staring at a girl applying another two skincare products on top of the four already layered on. 

A grey sliver of light peeked through the curtains – no sun to worry about. It was Monday, 10 a.m., and I was still awake from the night before, my bones aching from a lack of exercise. I’d stopped counting the days, and instead, buried the twinge of despair as I saw them pass by with an absent acknowledgement. Another email fell through and in my earnestness, dragged it down, revealing the sender. 

School of Humanities

Subject: Unreported Absence.

Fuck. I clicked it, readying myself for the onslaught of anxiety that had been brewing in the back of my mind. It slammed into me with such force, my breath stuttered as I skimmed over the words:

Dear Enoch-Jane Greene,

It has come to our attention that you have failed to attend multiple classes. As per our policy and attendance regulations, failure to comply may affect your academic standing and access to our Scholarship programme.

You are required to provide evidence of the medical or emergency circumstances for any future absences.

Please note that non-compliance will result in further disciplinary action, which may include formal warnings or suspension from the Creative Writing BA Honours course.

We expect your immediate attention to this matter and advise that all attendances are recorded from this day forward.

Sincerely,

Farah Valour

School of Humanities Administration

I read over it twice, and the image of my overfilled suitcase, and childhood bedroom blinked back at me. 

That room. 

That bed. 

His hands. 

I ripped the sheets off myself. My legs prickled with the cold, and I cursed my browning radiator that turned off intermittently with a persistent hiss. It was 10:21 a.m.

I had a scheduled class at 11:30 am with Dr. Theodore Lurves. With an anxious sigh, I swung my legs off the bed and tiptoed across the fuzzy blue carpet I’d dragged over from home, trying not to cringe at the crumbs. Whilst sidestepping brown takeout bags, I reached for an old towel.

I sniffed it. Not bad.

The spray of the shower alternated hot and cold down my back. Suds of soap dripped into my eyes. The neat row of hair and body products scrutinised me from the ledge, their enthusiastic, colourful labels, cult-like in their invitation. 

10:36am

A shadow still lived in my jeans, the legs apart and the waistband upright in the same starchy position I’d left them in last week. I stepped back into them with stale ease.

The door slammed behind me, and I walked to the bus stop clutching at my brown leather jacket, my breaths curling in cold clouds around me. My nipples were stiff beneath the thin fabric of my henley top, and for a moment I regretted not wearing a bra. But it was not sexy, it was dirty; the pebbled, dark skin would chafe as I moved, protruding through the fabric and creating a second pair of eyes that my converser would notice, but not linger on. Not if they valued their own integrity – conservative enough to avert their gaze from my liberal transgression.

Long live freedom of choice.

Autonomy.

I scoffed. The bus pulled up in a quick turn, upsetting muddy puddles and splashing water on the tips of my trainers. I wiggled my toes in my socks. Still dry. The beep of my card confirmed the loss of my last couple pounds, and I moved down the corridor, settling myself down into a window seat. 

11:02am

The bus hummed. I fought to steady the mascara wand in my hand. My reflection shaking in the other. Lip balm, a little blush, and a spritz of cinnamon dreams. 

11:10am

The maroon polish on my nails had chipped: cheap and streaky. A sardonic homage to the bark of a lonely tree. Oh, how art imitates life. My teeth scratched at it, catching on my cuticles with every jerky brake of the bus. A ding rang out as I let go of the button and made my way to the doors.

‘Thanks,’ I muttered to the driver, stepping back out into the icy air. A shiver rolled over my shoulders, and I tightened my fist on the strap of my bag. 

Lancel University was a private establishment, the university fees so high my mother laughed when the pamphlet skidded across the kitchen table, bumping into her plate of breakfast eggs. Two scholarships were offered per year, and a girl named Katerina Hawksley was the recipient of the second. She was a tall girl with red lips and a mane of sandy blonde curls. Her left incisor tooth had a yellow sheen to it from where she would balance her cigarette, and her black combat boots made her look like she’d escaped the stage of a rock band. I first saw her at a party, her long arms dangling off the balcony of a shitty apartment downtown, her raspy laugh brushing up against the night. It was enticing and lurid, but I wasn’t certain she liked girls, and even if she did, I had still been somebody else’s girlfriend. 

I inhaled sharply, the cold air stinging my nose, the bite of autumn finally showing its teeth. 

‘Excuse me.’

A girl pushed past me. I recognised her by the click of her leopard print ankle boots, and the bleached blonde buzzcut. My fingers itched for a cigarette. 

The time. I was going to be late.

Tucking a loose strand of dark, halo-style frizz behind my ear, I followed the girl through the double doors, down the hall and up a small winding staircase. Crevices and corners of the school still upheld the traditional, castle aestheticism that was expected of establishments of its kind. 

I had never considered myself a liar, though I did a good job of hiding behind the rose-coloured glasses that romanticised my studies. Beauty was bound to make me cleverer. More original.

‘Ladies, gentlemen, and they-sies!’ Theodore’s voice was a low baritone, reverberating down the hallway. The girl in front of me chuckled, her heels landing harder on every step. His voice persisted. ‘Come in and get settled, please.’

The large Palladian window came into view, strokes of brown and orange falling from the trees and carried by the wind in a slow, autumnal exhale of the earth. It was reminiscent of a cathedral ceiling, wooden floorboards creaked beneath our feet, and the little shelves on the side of the room housed dusty books. All food for worms.

Theodore was standing at the front, horn rimmed glasses balancing on the bridge of his nose. He looked directly at me as I entered, raising a brow. 

There was a fictive quality to his demeanour – something about the ironed shirt rolled to the elbows, half tucked into his slacks, but tidy, nonetheless. Long fingers with bony knuckles held open a cheap notebook, both sides flopping over the sides of his hands. My eyes fell on his lips, looking for the pen. Performance would beg for it to sit between his teeth, a spot of ink beside the mole on his right cheek. Instead, it sat primly on the desk leaning on his black laptop. A prop in adherence to modern law. I was daring in my glances, but not enough to meet his eyes. His youth made it easier to forgive myself for all the time I’d wasted not going to class. Theodore had never stressed the professional gap between him and us only mentioning it once whilst relating a celebrity breakup. I’d heard of neither person but nodded all the same. 

‘Sit, sit,’ he said, gesturing around the room. A handful of mismatched armchairs were arranged in a half-circle, the feet scuffed, and the pillows squashed into shape. The others settled, digging through their bags and muttering between themselves. It was a small room, located on the top floor with a fireplace always lit in the colder months. 

As I sat down, a wave of exhaustion settled over me. I hadn’t slept properly in days, and skipping yet another night entirely mattered more than I’d thought it would. 

‘Lucia, read to me.’

Authoritative ease. 

She blushed and cleared her throat, ‘From what piece, Theodore?’

He chuckled. ‘You spoil me.’ 

Titters around the room. 

‘Something that’s inspired you,’ Theodore said, with an enthusiasm that rang against my ears. ‘Let’s open the door for conversation!’ 

I ignored the pointed look and shuffled through my empty notebook, the pages crinkling together as I flicked through it. Abandoning my studies also meant my writing. Lucia began to read. 

‘This is part of a personal project.’

She spoke it like a declaration, a deep confessional to the class. Theodore leant on his desk, legs crossed, watching her with a careful measure of curiosity and awe. I doubted how genuine it was; the restriction of inherent privilege stopping him from truly understanding the female voice. It was an easy trick to use. 

Lucia waiting, eyes wide.

‘So visceral,’ he said, finally. ‘Original.’

She preened under his praise, leaning back in her chair with a grin so wide she resembled the Cheshire Cat. 

‘Does anyone have anything they’d like to say?’

The girl beside her coughed. I focused my gaze on my notebook with enough conviction to tear it in two. 

‘Come on, don’t be shy now,’ Theo said, looking around. ‘Leo!’

Leo winced. 

‘Tell me your thoughts.’

Leo cleared his throat, staring at his laptop screen, as though he’d written something down. We all waited, the air taut. 

‘The grammar is quite experimental,’ he said, pedantic as ever. I swallowed a laugh. Lucia frowned. 

‘Experiments are what gave us light, Mr. Sharpe,’ Theodore said, curtly. ‘Anything else?’

He glanced at me, and I slumped as we made eye contact. ‘En—’

‘I quite liked the way she described her room.’ 

Theodore’s head snapped over to Precious. I breathed a short sigh of relief. She was a tall girl, always hanging around Lucia and dressed in various kinds of lace; gloves, little dresses, jackets trimmed with it. Paired with Lucia, they were a fetishists masturbatory dream.

‘The mess – she personified it in a way that made it feel like its own character.’ Precious continued, fingers playing with her braids, crossing them over each other and then undoing them. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked loudly.

‘Yes, lovely observation,’ Theodore said, crossing his arms in a way that tensed his shirt, outlining the broad curve of his shoulders. ‘Would you like to expand on that?’

To my reprieve, she nodded. 

The rest of the class passed in the same fashion. Holding my breath at every pause, praying to a God I half believed in to spare me from the spotlight. Precious shared an excerpt of her own work – both beautifully written and eloquently spoken – practiced traits. Dismissal was at a natural pause; Theodore rarely concerning himself with the hour. He would say that art should never be measured, for it is of the essence!

In first year, I bragged about his profound statements to my parents, writing down his little comments in the hopes it would earn me his respect and grant me his intelligence, but now, as I heard him speak, I wanted nothing more than for him to just stop. The chairs squeaked as people stood, the aged springs slowly jumping back into place. The pages of my notebook were crumpled in my bag, the spine bent out of place. A strange sense of melancholy lingered on my fingers as I pushed it further down out of sight, as though I were burying my inspiration with it. Although, I scarcely had energy to care. 

Blood rushed in my ears as I stood, forcing me to clutch both armrests to steady myself. Dizzy. Two stale crusts of pizza swam in my mind’s eye— that had been over a day ago. Fuck. The exit was only a few feet away. Stairs would be another battle, but I’d call a taxi back to my accommodation and then pass out there. In bed. My pit of depression. I took one measly step forward. 

‘Enoch.’

I took a sharp breath and stopped. 

Don’t pass out. 

I turned to see Precious, a kind smile on her face, green-painted nails peeking out from her fingerless gloves. 

‘Hello,’ I said, glancing back at the door. There was no colour in my face – I could feel it. If she noticed, she didn’t say. Her friends had all descended the stairs, leaving only the echo of haughty, unapologetic, laughter in their wake. 

‘Are you busy tomorrow?’ she said it nicely, a placid question, yet I felt my stomach tense. The image of more takeout bags and unread books piling into a cardboard castle of despair, floated around me. No shiny knight to save me. 

‘No.’

It fell out unfiltered. I heard Theodore cough behind me, a hollow sound that shook me back into my shoes. He was privy to our every word. 

‘You should come over and hang with us.’

Hang. Us. 

‘Uh, sure.’

‘Room 405,’ she said, hitching her bag further up her shoulder. Little keepsakes and keys clinked against each other: her carabiner a home to all things shiny. Ah, the knight. 

‘Same building.’

‘Sure,’ I repeated absently. Us meant her and Lucia. Goaded company.

Another smile, and then she disappeared through the doorway. I made it one more step before I was stopped again.

‘Enoch-Jane Greene.’

Theodore waited behind me, pen tapping against the desk. 

‘Hello,’ I answered, turning to him with cheeks red enough to rival hot coals.

Both brows were raised, creating an accordion of wrinkles. He regarded me with thin lips, eyes trained on the plane of my forehead, the slope of my nose and finally, my outfit. It was then I remembered my choice to forgo a bra and cursed internally. 

‘Come.’

It was an order. My view became his brown trench coat as we spiralled down the stairs, and out of a small side door stamped with a sticker of a little green man that read: Fire Exit. We moved in silence, only the tap of his shiny Oxford shoes splitting it up between us. A blast of cold air slapped me in the face, overgrown branches tangling in my hair as we walked through and settled outside. It was a small garden, with a moulding bench overlooking the little spouting fountain in the centre. 

‘Quaint, isn’t it?’ 

I hummed in agreement, picking the sticks from my hair. Theodore looked strange in the garden, his tan face stark against the palette of greenery around us. He was missing his briefcase, armed only with his pen and whatever he was rooting around for in his pockets. 

‘Take a seat,’ he said, jerking his head in direction of the bench, as though we were still upstairs in the classroom. I obeyed. The condensation wet my jeans, but I held a neutral stare as though my rebuttal would upset him. Theodore didn’t look at me; his brows knitted together in concentration as he continued digging in the other coat pocket.

‘Ah,’ he said at last. ‘Found it.’

Two cigarettes, both creased at the middle, lay in his open palm. 

‘Why?’ I asked. 

He clicked his tongue and sat beside me, the heat of his leg emanating on my own. 

‘These conversations are far easier with a vice.’

Balancing one of the cigarettes between his lips, he pressed the other into my waiting hand. A lighter clicked, the flame flickering and kissing the tip of his. The ember glowed red, and he inhaled deeply. I wasn’t a frequent smoker. A pack of Marlboro reds was stuffed in my fur coat at home, only used when the clock struck twelve on a night out, like a perverted version of Cinderella. Drunk enough and the carriage appears. Always without Roman. It was a heartless transgression to disregard my own health and anger him as a consequence. 

It’s because I care, he’d say. No one wants a bitchy girlfriend with a fag habit.

As the smoke curled in my lungs, I wondered if Roman had ever wanted a girlfriend, or just a dolly with a wet pussy to play with. 

‘It is not often that one of my students goes missing,’ Theo had his gaze fixed on the fountain. ‘Considering the fees alone, it’s blasphemy.’

I coughed out a laugh, covering my mouth with my sleeve. ‘I’m on a scholarship.’

‘I know.’

A beat.

‘You do realise that makes your case a little worse?’

‘Case?’

‘Yes. Missing in action,’ he said dryly.

I laughed, bitter and hard to swallow. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why?’ 

His question was an echo of my own, but I had no answer waiting in the palm of my hand. 

‘I don’t know,’ I said, numbly. 

The cigarette burned. I watched it.

‘You know we’re not so far in age, Greene.’

A white flag. We were. A doctoral degree felt far from a little bachelors and then add his years teaching. 

‘Quite a gap in authority, professor.’ I said wryly. 

He tipped his head back, laughter spilling out, unexpected and warm. ‘You certainly burn bridges before they’re built.’ 

‘Then I’m not burning bridges. Just possibility.’

‘Ah, possibility and probability.’

A prickle of unease threaded through my thoughts. He was asking for a confessional, sat side by side – tell me your sins and it’ll set you free. Only my grandmother was Catholic. I took one last, long drag.

 ‘I think I’ve become a little bit of a problem, haven’t I, sir?’ 

‘Sir?’ He raised a brow.

I mimicked him. ‘No?’

‘I’d love it if you thought more of yourself, and I don’t think sir is the correct term when sharing a cigarette.’ A grin tugged at his lips, the smoke escaping between his teeth. Ash fell from my own, dotting my jeans. The statement hung between us, and in that moment, I made a split-second decision. 

I leaned towards him, my hair falling over my shoulder, looking up at him through my lashes and said: ‘Less cigarette, more second-hand smoke.’ 

He laughed again, but it was lighter, his body stiffening as we made contact. My face brushed the shoulder of his blazer, the cotton-tweed fuzzy against my cheek and rich with the smell of stale coffee. A muscle in his jaw twitched as I rested my weight on him, heart thudding in my chest. Theodore cleared his throat, a light blush falling on the contours of his cheek. I exhaled, watching a loose strand of hazel hair touch from the bridge of his nose to his eye. Power gripped me – something alarming – and I had the urge to do something irrevocably stupid. 

Placing a hand under his chin. Pressing his lips to my own. Grabbing at his collar. Lifting myself over his lap. Hands pressed on my waist, turning me over, a hand in my hair— 

I ripped myself away, my face suddenly feeling filthy. Nausea collected in the base of my belly, nose filling with sweat – musky aftershave, hours on a rugby pitch, both masked with cologne. My wrist so tight in his fist, I left with a bracelet of bruises.

Fuck. Memories blurred into the space before me, and I took a short breath of clear air. 

‘Why don’t you come to my classes anymore, Greene?’

Theodore still hadn’t faced me, one arm spread over the bench, his cigarette burnt out, looking longingly at the fountain. A small mercy. Words failed me, the silence trenching uncomfortably. He waited, letting his eyes close, fingers drumming against his thigh.

‘I’m trying,’ I muttered, finally. Could he hear my heart? I threw my own cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with my shoe. 

‘May I be frank with you?’ he asked suddenly. 

‘Yes.’

‘I won’t pretend to understand whatever it is that you may be going through, but I can’t pass you if you don’t show up. At least give me something to mark, Enoch.’

I cringed as he placed a hand on my knee, his thumb circling the creases in my jeans. ‘You’re a clever girl.’

I blinked. ‘Thank you.’ 

 ‘Though enigmatic, and quite…striking…’ he continued with a puzzlement, as if I were an unfinished thought. Striking?

‘Wait— what, sorry?’ I said it bluntly, the words piercing the air.

Theodore shrugged, unaffected. ‘I give credit where credit is due, and your work truly is something special.’

I must’ve been dreaming. The concoction of exhaustion and his sudden attention was confusing me. My work. He was talking about my work. In one smooth movement, he lifted his hand from my leg and placed it back into his lap. 

‘Do come to my classes.’

I nodded, my leg still hot with his touch.

‘I wouldn’t think to miss any more.’

Another smile, this time with teeth.