About the Author Sophia Holder graduated from the University of Southampton in 1998 with an upper second B.Sc. Hons. in maths and French. She is now living in Costa Rica teaching English as a foreign language. She has been writing seriously for 2 years. As a teacher, she enjoys observing people and writing about strong emotions, the absurd and impossible. She has written a number of other short stories in the experimental genre. This collection of stories are her fist in Nuvein.

The wig was slipping, the make-up beginning to run. And so was I … running for my life.

It all started at that wedding. I gazed at him, handsome and dignified. I looked at her, petite and dull. I felt that she would never fully understand his potential brilliance.

Girls had always flocked around Mark in droves. Prancing about. He was intelligent, fashionable and popular. He charmed women and wrestled with any man who said a word against them. I was never bullied at school. No one ever mentioned my thick glasses, thick red hair, teeth, weight, acne or braces. This was largely due to my friendship with him. Being a sensitive soul, I hated fights and quarrels, and was indebted to him.

Now in our late twenties, he was more dashing than ever, and I was becoming more attractive as I matured. We met up regularly to discuss world politics, art, our favourite philosophical theorists and the best looking girls we knew. Despite my growing beauty, I had not allowed myself to think about him in a sexual way. Although we had always held each other in high esteem, I knew he could never be mine. However, I always felt a twang of jealousy whenever girls flirted with him. And insanely jealous when it was reciprocated.

As I watched him exchanging vows with that pretty little airhead, I realised the extent of my feelings for Mark. I was desolate. I had been to happier funerals.

Although we would often go for a month at a time with no contact, I pined for him deeply when he was away on his two-week honeymoon. On their return, the gang elected to celebrate their matrimony in style. A fancy dress party. After a few arguments, we all finally settled for the eternally successful; tramps and tarts. Everyone looked fantastic. All of the lads were dressed in drag, with their hair prettily tousled, their make up gaudy and distasteful, their enormous breasts of balloons and or socks, and their ornate ball gowns from Oxfam.

Mark made his grand entrance and the room shook with laughter. However good-looking he was when male, however manly and desirable, he cut a striking figure as a woman. The tension between Mark and I that night was thrilling and intense for both of us were highly charged. We were alone when it happened. I told him. I disclosed to him what I had always felt for him, but had not allowed myself to explore until two weeks previous. Since I gave my short, revealing speech on impulse, I had not given any thought as to how Mark may react.

His big red cheeks glowed then burned, melting his heavy make-up.
“You fucking shirt lifter! I’ll fucking show you bent!”
“I’m not gay Mark. I’m just in love with you.” I responded quietly.
“You fucking want the living crap bet out of you Tom?”
But he was too traumatised and sickened to move. I took advantage of this and quickly left.

I needed to inhale clean air. I began to trudge wretchedly along the pavement towards the coast. I heard the door slam and turned around. Mark had followed. I fled. I careered down the street at full pelt. He gave chase, galloping wildly after me. I increased my speed, panicking to get away. This comrade, who, from the early years had always protected me from the thugs with his wit, his articulate way with words, and his brute strength. This hero. Was now against me. And I was about to recoup all that had been doled out in my defence.

He had a violent temper, and running towards the sea was a foolish idea. Mark knew that I could not swim.

Sweat and rain were pouring down me. My clothes were drenched. My wig, irritating me now, was slipping off my itchy scalp. Rain and tears dampened my perfectly painted face. The make up was beginning to run. And so was I … running for my life. I turned back to see that I was losing him. For I was able to glide gracefully down the street in my stilettos. He looked clumsy trying to hurry along in his sister’s shoes. As I looked back, I was struck with awe. The awe and wonder I had felt for Mark my idol since the age of twelve. Now, after three seconds of drunken distraction, of love filled lunacy, I had lost him. My eyes burned, and I went into a sudden panic as I realised that I would never see him again. My breathing became short and shallow. It was difficult to suck the biting wind into my lungs. My shining cavalier. Gone forever. As I approached the sea, waves of grief washed over me.

Feverish, nauseous, and sweating chilly fluids from every pore, I could no longer breathe. I had to stop. I fell onto the sea wall. I heard his steps behind me. I had lost all feeling in my limbs and knew that I would be unable for the mêlée. I lay my body against the wall, quivering with dread, anxiety and cold, wondering where I was going to receive the first blow.

He put an arm around me and turned me towards him. The stomach? The groin? The nose?
He put his hand on my hip and drew my body against his. I braced myself for his head butt which I’d seen break another man’s nose. Instead, I felt his lips against mine; soft, warm and sweet. The kindest, sweetest, most gentle kiss I had ever had. I fell against his shoulder and relaxed into his arms, tears streaming down my frown. He held me up, declaring that I was beautiful, and that this had always been his most sincere desire.

We went to the beach and made love. Afterwards, I lay in his arms, worrying about what we should do. Mark comforted me, soft and soothing. We returned to the party hand in hand. I was blissfully happy, with my wig half on my head and mascara stains down my face.

“Quiet please.” Mark made the plea over the microphone, my hand still firmly in his grasp. “I have an announcement.” I looked at him agog. Thinking how brave he was to do this, wondering what he would say. He had only been married for two weeks.

He lifted my hand in the air and declared,
“Tom…” he paused to build up to the climax “…is a fucking bender!” Nobody spoke. “No word of a lie. He told me just now. Ain’t that right Tom?”

I was in hospital for two months recovering from what Mark and the lads did to me that night. I was on crutches for another two, and it was two years before I could walk a mile comfortably.