Ben

It was dark when I woke up. I surveyed the room. Empty pizza boxes lay discarded on the floor next to my single bed. On my desk, piles of work had been pushed aside to make room for a half empty bottle of gin and some cheap lemonade. Every dish I owned was piled high in the sink of my studio flat’s tiny kitchenette. My clothes lay strewn around the room, a river of dirty laundry from the mouth of an overflowing basket. It was a hell of my own making. 

I was six thousand miles away from home, in Japan on my Year Abroad as part of my degree. I was supposed to be studying at a prestigious Kyoto university; I hadn’t been to class in three months. Instead, I was holed up in my room, only leaving to buy more booze, pick up food deliveries, or go on the occasional Tinder date for some human contact. I had over a thousand unread emails – some, I could tell by the subject lines, were angry ones from my university back home, threatening to withdraw me from my course if I didn’t get my act together. I couldn’t bring myself to open them. 

I barely moved from my bed anymore. My limbs ached, and my joints were stiff. I’d not seen much of Japan; I was mostly nocturnal now anyway. The unmissable red autumn leaves in Kyoto had come and gone, and I’d not even seen them from my window. I couldn’t tell anyone back home how I was doing. I’d ring my parents daily, feigning a sunny disposition, and tell them everything was alright. It couldn’t have been further from the truth. 

I was more depressed than I’ve ever been in my life, but back then I didn’t recognise what was happening. I couldn’t articulate it. The word was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t quite reach it. Was it laziness? Burn out? A drinking problem? Mental illness wasn’t something that was on my radar. I was clueless. All I knew for certain was that this fugue was my fault, and that there must be something deeply wrong with me. I needed to get out. I needed to fix it. 

I checked my phone. It was 6 p.m. already. Sleeping when I was supposed to be in class alleviated a lot of my guilt – you can’t be anxious if you’re not conscious. Besides, there was something calming about being awake while the world around you slept. There were no daily pressures, no sounds, nothing. Nighttime was my own personal little world, where nothing mattered. 

I had a text from Student Finance England, informing me that my maintenance loan had been deposited into my account. It was supposed to last me the next few months, but I saw an opportunity. I grabbed my laptop from underneath the mess on the floor and opened up Google Maps. I’d get away, somewhere hot. Winter in Kyoto is bitter. I decided that ten days in the sun would sort me out. I’d be that gap year wanker finding themselves in South East Asia. I didn’t care; I was desperate. I couldn’t go on like this, not living and barely surviving. 

I don’t know why I decided on Malaysia. On the screen, it didn’t seem too far. I pictured white sand beaches, shimmering turquoise water. You’ve got the money now, just book, the impulsive voices in my head taunted me. So, I spent half of my student loan on a holiday; ten days split between Kuala Lumpur and Penang, a city break followed by the beach. I didn’t care that I wouldn’t have enough money to live on when I got back. I wasn’t thinking that far ahead. I’d work something out. 

***

A week later I arrived at Reggae Mansion, a self-proclaimed ‘party hostel’ with an upper age limit of thirty five. I hadn’t been able to help myself when I’d booked; I needed somewhere with a guarantee of alcohol. As I checked in, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the front desk. I was sweaty, bloated from the flight, my hair flat against my face. I wondered if, in a week when I checked out, I’d see a completely different girl in the mirror. Healthy, with a slight tan and bouncy hair. I’d be well rested, with a plan for the future and zest for life. I hoped. 

My dorm was shared with a dozen other people, the walls stacked with cubicles where we’d sleep, each equipped with a mattress, lamp and plug socket. This would be home for the next week. At least it was cleaner than my room in Japan. I heaved my suitcase onto my bed, eager to retrieve my make up and at least sort my face out. That night, there was a party at the rooftop bar, where hostel guests could mingle with other travellers. My intense social anxiety meant this wasn’t massively appealing to me, however the free drink ticket I’d received upon checking in was enough to persuade me to go. 

Later I made my way up the winding staircase to the bar, my make up sweating off in the humidity. As I pushed open the heavy metal door at the top, I was hit by a blast of cool air and loud music. The view was incredible; Kuala Lumpur twinkled below us, while the Petronas Towers rose above. I took a deep breath in an attempt to calm my pounding heart. Anxious thoughts flooded my brain. What are you doing here? In all my impulsive moves, flying three thousand miles away by myself on a whim was up there as perhaps the most stupid. I bit my lip as another wave of worry hit me, my mind wandering to the unopened emails on my phone. Not now. I’d get a drink to calm my nerves. I should be allowed a night without dealing with it all, I thought to myself. I should just enjoy myself for now. I pushed the niggling thoughts to the back of my mind and walked over to the bar. You’ve gone from drinking alone in one country to drinking alone in another, the voice in my head scolded me. I ordered a double gin and tonic to shut it up. 

I was so deeply lonely. I sat at the bar, watching groups of travellers socialising and laughing. I was too scared to join in. I wasn’t as pretty as the girls. I wasn’t good enough for the boys. I took out my phone and opened up Tinder. Swiping was my security blanket; those little bursts of dopamine as I matched with strangers were enough to keep me going. With a few matches under my belt, I felt a little more confident. I spotted two boys in vests and shorts sitting at a long table, alone. I wandered over. 

“Got a light?” I asked. They offered me a seat. I didn’t fancy either of them, which worked in my favour – I wasn’t too nervous besides my usual social anxiety. They were English. They spoke in sexist cliches and showed off about the gym. I was bored, but bored is better than lonely. At least I wasn’t alone. My phone buzzed in my pocket; a Tinder match had messaged me. Grateful of the chance for a break from the super-lads, I messaged him back. 

Ben was 24 and had a friendly smile. He was from Manchester, but living in Kuala Lumpur for work. He was rich, he told me, with a high flying job that took him all over the world. As a skint, depressed 21-year-old, I was impressed. I texted Ben under the table while the two boys talked at me, and sent him some of their misogynistic drivel. He joined in with my eye rolling over WhatsApp, and I felt like I’d found a good egg. He asked if I’d join him for dinner the following evening. I accepted. He could be the ticket out of my depression hole, I thought hopefully to myself. I didn’t know how, but I was at the age where I still assumed that the right man would be the answer to all of my problems. I put my phone away, content, and asked the boys if they’d like to dance. We made our way to the dance floor, fresh drinks in hand, and I finally felt happy. I didn’t even care when it started to rain; we danced in the puddles, splashing at each other, laughing until the sun came up. It almost felt like I didn’t have a care in the world. 

I spent the next day trying to see as much of Kuala Lumpur as I could with a hangover. This transpired to be just the hostel bar and local 7 Eleven. The anxiety was back, and again I wondered what the hell I was doing. I was spending money I didn’t have on snacks and cocktails, sitting alone for hours on end, enjoying the air-con and lax smoking policy. This was hardly recovery. I listened to podcasts, both to keep myself entertained and to block out any creeping doubts or nagging thoughts. By my third Bloody Mary I’d started to relax, although I felt like the hostel staff were judging me. I avoided eye contact with the groups of young people around me, turned down invitations from other travellers to games of cards or sightseeing trips. Their tanned faces and bright smiles only reminded me of my own failings. I just needed to be alone until I met up with Ben; Ben would fix everything. 

I was meeting him at 7, so at 5 I paid the large bar tab I had racked up and headed to my dorm to get ready. I was nervous but excited. We’d chatted on and off throughout the day, and he made me laugh. The idea of a holiday romance was so appealing. I needed distraction from my real life, and simply being abroad wasn’t cutting it so far. I needed more. 

I sat awkwardly in my cramped cubicle trying to apply make up. Anything I put on my face came off in a sweaty mess just seconds later. The humidity was intense. I simultaneously fanned and powdered my face in an effort to hide the shine, pausing frequently for sips of my 7 Eleven beer to keep the buzz topped up and calm my nerves. I wondered what my roommates thought of me, but I didn’t really care. If Ben was going to somehow be the answer to my mess of a life, then I needed to impress. I wondered if I’d be enough for him. 

The restaurant was on the ground floor of a shopping mall at the foot of the Petronas Towers. As I walked towards the entrance, I spotted a man leaning against the wall, nervously chewing his nails. It had to be him. 

“Ruby?” he asked as he spotted me walking towards him. He was tall and broad, with an easy smile and dishevelled hair. That smile calmed my nerves instantly. I liked him straight away. 

The restaurant was posh. A waiter walked us through to our table, outside on the terrace, and pulled my seat out for me. Next to us was a fountain show, complete with bright colourful lights and music, that attracted hundreds of spectators every evening. We had the best seats in the house. It was picturesque. Although Ben was rich, he was clearly very new to this lifestyle. We joked about not knowing which cutlery to use. We both ordered pints. I was having fun. 

We left dinner drunk, and took an Uber to a strip of bars Ben suggested. I remember blaring music and neon lights, but not much of our conversation. I was vaguely unsettled when he told me he’d lost a lot of money in a dodgy tax avoidance scheme; I needed Ben to really have his life together if he was going to fix mine. But all this I forgot when he showed me pictures of his young nephew on his phone and told me he’d do anything for the boy. I wondered if one day he’d be showing friends pictures of me, telling them he’d do anything for me. I wanted that. Ben fuelled the flames of my fantasy. 

“I want to see you again while you’re here, definitely. There are so many places I wanna take you to,” he whispered in my ear between kissing me. I of course took this to mean that he was slowly but surely falling in love with me. A warm, content feeling spread through my body, partly from the compliments but mostly from the alcohol. Japan and my real life seemed a long way away. 

We chatted about everything, from our lives back home to our hopes for the future. I told him my favourite film was Pulp Fiction; it wasn’t, but I knew what boys liked to hear. He suggested we get an Uber back to his – he promised we didn’t have to do anything, and that we could just watch a film and have some more drinks. I wondered if this was a good idea; it was one thing staying at a stranger’s house back home, but thousands of miles away seemed more risky somehow. Despite the gnawing doubts, I said yes. The bars were shutting, and I didn’t want the night to end just yet. It was the perfect antidote to reality. 

The Uber pulled up to a shiny skyscraper on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur. A doorman showed us in and led us to the lifts. Aged 21 and still intoxicated by shiny things, I felt safe in Ben’s hands. I didn’t believe bad things happened in buildings like this. 

Ben’s flat was on the seventeenth floor. He shared it with a roommate who was away a lot, although it was big enough for a large family. Everything was white, pristine, the antithesis to my studio in Kyoto. He poured me a glass of wine and led me outside to his balcony. 

“I really like you,” he told me as we leaned on the railings. “I can imagine us together, back in the UK.” 

I beamed as I looked out over the city. Suddenly there was a glimmer of hope in my life. I looked down; the cars looked like toys below. A thought invaded the calm: he could push you off. You don’t know him. I was being reckless. I gripped the railing and chewed my lip, anxiety taking over me. 

“Let’s go in and watch the film? I’m getting cold,” I said. 

We spooned on his sofa and watched Pulp Fiction, pausing every so often to kiss some more. I didn’t want to have sex with him – I was too tired, too drunk – but I let him take my underwear off anyway. Eventually I admitted I was falling asleep. He nodded, yawned, and gently guided me to his bedroom. I quickly drifted off next to him, drunk and content. 

I woke up with a jolt. Ben was kissing my shoulder. The light streaming through his blinds revealed a small bare bedroom, with white walls and sheets, devoid of personal belongings. The complete lack of mess triggered a pang of guilt as I thought of my own room in Japan. I blinked, my eyelids still heavy with sleep. 

“Stop it, Ben, I’m not awake yet,” I mumbled, exhausted. We’d stayed up so late, we couldn’t have had more than a couple of hours of sleep. I expected Ben to stop kissing me, roll over and leave me to sleep in peace. Instead, he climbed on top of me. 

“Let’s finish what we started last night,” he whispered, opening my legs with one hand. 

“No, no, I’m too sleepy,” I said playfully, yawning as if to prove it. 

“Come on,” he persisted. 

“No,” I repeated, firmer this time. “Sorry, no.” I was too tired, too hungover. I wanted to get back to my hostel and shower and sit at my spot in the bar sipping cocktails. I wanted to be back home in London, safe on my parents’ sofa. I wanted to be anywhere but here. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be quick,” he said without emotion as he pushed inside of me. I gasped; I didn’t want this. I thought I’d said no. I’d definitely said no. But he kept going. 

A million thoughts raced through my head as he grunted on top of me. Why wasn’t I fighting him off? Did I not care? I felt icky, and I wanted it to stop, but I did nothing to make it stop. I just lay there and waited for him to finish. I wasn’t sure what was happening. He finished quickly as promised, then lay panting on top of me for a moment before silently rolling back to his side of the bed and going back to sleep. I lay there stunned. I couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. I wasn’t sure if I had the right to be angry, to feel upset. I could leave, but to leave would mean to admit something was wrong. I wasn’t ready to do that. I decided to join him in sleeping. I didn’t want to think about it anymore, I was too tired. Sleep felt like the best option. 

When I woke up, I was alone. I checked my phone; 11 o’clock. I’d slept for a few more hours. I looked around the bare room again and wondered why he didn’t have any photos of the family he loved so dearly. Suddenly I heard him, laughing with someone in the living room. It must have been his roommate. I wondered what they were laughing about. I hoped it wasn’t me. 

My question was answered when Ben walked back into the bedroom, holding up my underwear. 

“Think you left these on the sofa,” he laughed. “I’ve ordered you an Uber back to your hostel,” he continued, handing me my knickers before leaving the room again. I got dressed quickly, my hands trembling. I couldn’t find my bra. I’d just leave it; I didn’t want to be humiliated any further. 

I hesitantly opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the living room. I didn’t want to see the roommate. My cheeks were burning. Ben walked me to his front door. “Hope you get back okay,” he said before shutting it in my face. I stood there, momentarily dumbfounded, before turning and heading to the lifts, to my Uber waiting outside. 

I spent the journey with my head pressed against the window, enjoying the cool glass against my pounding headache. I tried to piece together what had happened. It had started off so well. Ben had seemed like one of the good ones. For it to end with him essentially kicking me out after… I didn’t know what to call the sex. I didn’t want to say the R-word. But I’d definitely said no. I felt unclean. I looked at my phone, the red email notification glaring at me. What are you doing? I wasn’t fixing my problems out here, I was running away from them and making them all worse. Back at the hostel, I climbed into my bunk, curled up into a ball and drifted off into a fitful sleep. 

It was dark when I woke up. On the other side of my curtain, I could hear my roommates getting ready for nights out I wasn’t invited to after having been thoroughly unfriendly the day before. I looked around my bunk. I was surrounded by 7 Eleven snack wrappers and empty beer cans. How quickly I’d gone back to my old ways. In that moment I despised myself. 

I decided I’d message Ben. I figured I deserved some kind of explanation, that he could shed some light on what had gone so wrong. He didn’t have to be my boyfriend, but he could clear things up for me. I opened up WhatsApp. He’d blocked me. A lump rose in my throat. This was confirmation that there was definitely something wrong, and maybe it hadn’t been my fault. Maybe I’d been right. What the fuck had happened?

***

A week later, and I’d finally made it. I was in Penang, and had just trekked through the jungle for over an hour to reach Monkey Beach. Described as a ‘perfect paradise beach’ on Trip Advisor, I’d decided that this would be where I found salvation. This would be my coming-of-age film moment; I’d stand barefoot on the sand, the ocean lapping at my toes, and have my epiphany. I’d work out how to get out of the mess I’d made of my life. The beach itself was idyllic, everything I had hoped for. But as I sat on a tree swing across from the shimmering turquoise sea, white sand between my toes, all I could think of were Ben’s hands on me. I hated myself for not fighting more. I felt like a bad feminist, a failure of a woman. I’d run away from my problems and into bigger ones. I’d spent all my money on the trip of a lifetime only to find myself more desperate and pathetic than before. I got up and headed to a beach hut, where I bought a beer and connected to their WiFi. I’d try again, what was there to lose? I opened Tinder and began swiping.