I'm Not Sure Yet

"Just a small town girl. Living in a lonely world..." The mic crackles with static as the rain fizzes down, and my voice distorts. Despite myself, I flinch. Passersby do not seem to even notice, hoods up and eyes down. My umbrella jolts under the steady onslaught, and I shiver despite my coat. A few hours standing here is enough to make my knees lock in the best weather, and this cold is making them stiffer. "Strangers, waiting. Up and down the boulevard..."  The strangers continue to flood past as the rain thickens, ignoring me absolutely. A hunched figure dwarfed by an enormous red umbrella tosses his cigarette butt and it bounces off my guitar case, leaving a stub mark and a hiss as the water puts it out.  "Well, f**k you too then," I whisper under my breath, before launching into another chorus of "Don't Stop Believin'".  It's no good. I've not even made a fiver in the three hours I've been here and the people rushing home are unlikely to be more generous. They don't see me, and they definitely don't hear me. The pedestrians of Edinburgh have their Air Pods jammed firmly in, walking to their own beat among the cacophony of traffic, hawkers and people exclaiming the power of Jesus. "Streetlights, peeeee-puh-uh-uh-ull!" I finish, a little too dramatically, just as my brolly sags and pours a rivulet of water down my back. I sigh.  Collecting the few pennies and 50 pence pieces that have landed in my soggy guitar case, I pack up, hoping that none of my precious equiptment has got too water-damaged. I look across the square while going through the familiar moves; unplugging my guitar, wrapping the amp up snuggly. Even the Bible bashers are looking a little discouraged, their cardboard signs softening and "YOU MUST REPENT!" running, inky, into the street. I look across longingly at the Starbucks, windows steamed up with the buzz of coffee machines and pumpkin spice latte smiles. I watch the people laughing. They're warm, they're full, and even if they're not hungry, they might have a piece of cake or biscuit to go with their coffee. "Just a little treat," they reassure themselves. "Just a little titbit to tide me over until dinner." There is nothing sinister in that coffee shop. Just the baristas yelling for Sarah, for Kevin, for Abdullah the manager to come and help them with the backed-up machine spitting hot coffee all over the customers. Where the most you need to worry about is how many hours you have left of your shift, whether the shops will still be open to buy your cat food, whether you accidentally gave out a Grande when it should have been a Venti. And even though the hours might be long and your feet sore, at the end of the day, people smiled at you. Whether it's out of the goodness of their hearts or the promise of their next caffeine fix, it's hard to say. But you're there. I shiver and shoulder my heavy cases. I don't want to waste £1.70 on a bus fare, so I might as well walk. It's not too far to the hostel, although if I want to keep out of the rain it'll cost me an extra ten minutes going through the small alleyways. I duck into Waverley Station, immediately savouring the dryness and blast of warmth from the underfloor heating. Commuters automatically swerve around me, avoiding the squelch of my heavy Doc Martens across the marble floor. I grab a sandwich from WHSmith - I know it'll be cheaper from Lidl, but I'm starving. Munching into the egg and cress, I look up at the gilded ceiling. The rain is so much more pleasant on this side of the roof.  I people watch. So many people, passing so quickly, with barely a glance between them. If Oprah herself were to walk into these hallowed halls, people wouldn't notice, instead choosing to mutter "excuse me" while using their briefcases as rudders to steer through the sea of people. I savour the last bit of mayonnaise on the bread, while brushing my hands of the crumbs and tossing the wrapper into the nearest bin. At least I'm not them. At least I don't make my money slaving away in some shiny plastic building, praising "no, sir" and "yes, sir" as the last of my will to live and creativity was shaved from me. Where my soul would be added to the pulsing grey ball of The Corporation.  I owe no one. *** Forty minutes later, I shove my way through the front door and the uproar of drunk tourists fills the street behind me for a second before I slam it shut. I breathe deeply, taking a second to slump against the closed door. Despite the longer route, I still got soaked, and my dripping clothes are slowly turning the reddish carpet an ugly purple. I dump my music stuff in the dorm and sneak off to the showers. Maybe I can nick some of Kat's shampoo - I'm sure I heard her voice, slurry with vodka, yelling in the common room. I've stopped feeling bad about rummaging through my roommates' stuff; I know they go through mine. I've lost more guitar strings and picks than I can count, which miraculously turn up in the kitchen sink, having been used to butter bread or cut cheese. But Edith's in there, reading on her bunk when I try to saunter past. Bugger. Maybe someone's left some soap in the showers - I ran out weeks ago. There's no soap, but a half empty can of shaving foam oozing onto the sink. I grab it and charge into my favourite cubicle, the one that so far hasn't been sullied by couples groaning. There's a little hot water left - just enough to dampen my hair before I squirt some foam into my hand and scrunch it into my damp curls. It's amazing how versatile these things are - hotels have got it right. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, all combined into one handy little bottle. I just manage to wash the suds out of my hair before the water turns icy, and I step out, somehow colder than I was before I went in. Wrapping my towel around me, I brave the corridor and dart into the girls' dorms. Creepy Steve isn't hanging around, which means one less thing to worry about. When all the other girls get wasted and drunk, Steve sees me as the perfect sober angel, and seems to believes that if he asks enough times, maybe I'll go out with him.  Edith's gone, so I'm alone in the dorms. I drop my towel and have just got into my underwear when the door barges open and Lisa, Ava and to my horror, Brian, step in. "Lydiaaaaaaa!" Ava yells, clutching the door frame for support. "Where you been, girl? You gotta come join this party, it's wild!" "Shut the door!" I hiss, all too aware of the hole in my pants just below my waistline. Brian's noticed it too, and his wandering eyes make me want to slap him. "You got it, girl," Ava hiccups, and makes to close the door. Brian steps neatly out of the way, further into the room.  "It's quite the party," he chortles, but despite the drink in his hand I don't think any has touched his lips. Brian is a crocodile at the watering hole, waiting for girls to get far too inebriated to do mental maths, let alone give consent. I've heard he's been with almost everyone in the dorm - everyone except me and Edith. The girls never express interest in him until they're drunk, and then they take it as a given that it's their turn to sleep with him. It's almost a rite of passage. The first time it happened to Kat, I held her and expected her to cry. But instead she shook me off, laughing and saying it didn't really matter. It was just s*x, after all. I was furious, on her behalf. I wanted to report him to the hostel managers, who took a strict zero tolerance policy on these things. Her word alone would be enough, even if the other girls decided to keep quiet. But she didn't give her word. She didn't raise her voice. She just explained, quietly, that I didn't understand the situation. That yes, they had had s*x and no, she hadn't explicitly agreed. But she hadn't refused, either. It was just one of these things that happened.  I've avoided Brian since then. While I haven't ever been alone with him long enough to talk, I sometimes catch him looking at me with a little smirk on his face. As if he's knows that I know, and he thinks it's funny. And now, having him here in my space with my stupid frayed underwear on makes me grit my teeth. How dare he. Just then, Edith bursts in. "Has anyone..." she begins, and then her eyes settle on the uncomfortable scene. Her nostrils flair as she inhales deeply. "I don't think it's appropriate for Brian to be in the girl's dormitory," she says pompously. "In fact, it would really appreciate it if you could leave." Brian rolls his eyes. "Not all the ladies want me gone, do you girls?" he says, bumping his hip into Lisa, who staggers, giggling wildly, into Ava still holding the doorframe for support. Ava almost topples over, and the girls burst out laughing again. Their merriment echoes harshly in the cold, bare room. It seems out of place. Awkward. "Right, I think you better go, Bri," Lisa says. "We don't want Jesus coming down on us with a clash of thunder!" Her and Ava laugh again, although this time it's more forced. Brian doesn't seem amused. "Off you trot," Lisa reiterates, and Ava heaves herself up to shove Brian out the door. I just see his dark scowl deepening through the c***k when the door slams shut. The two girls totter off into the bathrooms, living Edith and I alone again. The juxtaposition is awkward; her holding a book of praise, me still clutching the towel tightly around my breasts. "I'll let you get changed," she says quietly, before turning her back and climbing back onto her bunk. I never thought I'd be grateful for Edith's piousness, but right now she's saved my ass. I quickly shove on an only slightly damp T-shirt and a pair of jeans, wrinkled from lying in a pile on my bed. As I brush my hair, I quietly observe her still frame, back slightly hunched over her book. Edith's the only one who's been here longer than me. I remember when I first signed in to Castle Rock four months ago, excited to live the life of a starving artist. She was the first person I met. She told me where the bathrooms were, what day was best to do your laundry. She helped me figure out how the tricky gas hob worked, and watched from the corner while I got plastered with new mates. A few times I tried to include her, but she always shook her head and left. The other girls didn't like her. They laughed at her clothes, her stuttering way of speaking, but often these jokes would find their way into cruel pranks. Spiders and rat droppings were found in Edith's bed. They added baking soda to her glass of milk at night, so she covered her mouth before running to the nearest sink and throwing up.  And all the time the girls would throw their heads back, laughing raucously. They didn't trust people they didn't understand. Edith was always hiding in her bunk when these drunken escapades ended up back in our room. We must have woken her, but she never complained as we shattered the peace of the night with our uncouth jokes and hoarse laughing. And whenever I woke up the next day with a mouth filled with cotton and a splitting headache, there would be a glass of water and a painkiller waiting next to my bed, with Edith's bunk empty and carefully made. All those new friends left, pulled by the promise of new lands, waving goodbye with a smile and a promise to stay in touch. None have. I don't begrudge them for it - judging by their average alcohol intake, I'm not sure how much they can even remember.  Edith's been kind to me. Annoying, for sure, but I realise now how much she's suffered for being different. And now she's taken the burden of being the cause of Brian's ill temper, which will doubtless make her life even more difficult. I owe her. "Hey, Edith," I say hesitantly, folding my towel. "What are you reading?" Edith stiffens and looks down from her top bunk. When she ascertains that I'm not taking the piss, she sniffs and flits a glance of the cover at me. "Modern Songs of Praise", the title proudly announces.  "Cool," I say awkwardly, tucking my shirt into my jeans. "Um, is it good?" "Yes." She turns away to carry on reading the page she was on. Then she pauses. "Would you like to hear some?" I'm not sure what to say, but this is the longest conversation I've had with Edith recently. "Sure," I say, hoping not to sound too sarcastic. "I will call upon Your Name, and keep my eyes above the waves. When oceans rise, my soul will rest in Your embrace. For I am yours, and You are mine." "Wow, that's pretty. Is it from, uh, Revelations or something?" To my surprise, she laughs. "No - it's an Australian band called Hillsong. The story is inspired by Matthew 14, where Jesus is walking on water and he calls Peter to Him. At first Peter's excited because he thinks he is the chosen one, but as soon as he is on the sea he gets scared and starts to sink. Jesus grabs his hand and asks him why he doubted. "I had you Peter," he says - or something like that. It's a reminder to us to trust Him even when we're scared." "That's beautiful," I say softly, and I mean it. I don't believe in what she does, but I can see how Edith lights up when she talks about God, and that is what is beautiful.  Just then, a host of other girls walk in. There are three new girls I can't quite tell apart yet, with Kat and Jessica leading them. They stop for a second when they see me talking to Edith, before launching, a little too loudly, into new conversation. I can feel Kat's eyes on my back, looking at me suspiciously. Edith turns her head slightly as though she were reading the whole time, and I automatically take a step back from her bunk.  "Come on, Lyds," Kat announces, stalking up to me and grabbing my arm. "The new boy, Liam, wants to make friends and is buying pizza for everybody! You've gotta come grab some!" She pulls me away and I turn to say something to Edith. "I'll save you some," I call uncertainly, but she has already returned to her book. Her small frame is curled around the torch, and I see her fist squeeze shut on something as Kat slams the door.