Hysteria

The words of Def Leppard’s Hysteria are on a loop in my head. I woke up this way and I know from experience that nothing is going to shift them. Don't get me wrong, I like the song - hell I love the song - but I do not want to listen to it all day.

Stumbling into the shared kitchenette, I pour out two spoonfuls of cornflake crumbs. I know which of my flatmates is responsible for that. Looks like I'm eating grown up branflakes today. Nope. He's finished those off as well. Oh, and he’s drained the last of the milk and put the empty bottle back in the fridge. Hysteria.

I eat two slices of dry toast because the half a tub of spread has also vanished. How has he managed to finish that off since yesterday? He must be eating it straight from the tub with a spoon.

I've got to get out of this place. My finals are coming up and I won't be able to focus on studying when I'm a constant ball of rage. It's lucky for Jake that he's not actually here at the moment. Hysteria.

Yesterday I almost froze to death. I’d lathered up my hair and was enjoying the feel of the hot water easing out the knots in my shoulder muscles. And when I say hot water, I mean HOT. In my opinion, if your skin doesn't turn red and start blistering, the water isn't hot enough. And then - sharp needles of freezing water pricked my scalp. Somebody hadn't put their contribution into the electric meter. Again. Hysteria.

I decide not to risk a shower today. It might just tip me over the edge.

I need something special - some sort of treat. I don't often treat myself - it's not so easy to afford it when you're paying someone else's share of the electric as well as your own. But I can start keeping my food in my room, and if I feed the meter just before I cook and shower next time, I can make sure I'm not subbing anyone else.

I'm not usually so selfish but today I don't care. Hysteria.

It's obviously a Def Leppard day, so I know exactly what treat to get...

Two hours later, I'm home again, sprawled on the best sofa – the lurid green one with the velvet cushions, not the one I have to sit on when Jake is around, the one with the broken springs that stick in you every time you change position – and I’m clutching my prize. Adrenalize! It was recently released and I've been saving up.

I stroke the cellophane wrap, feeling it crinkle under my fingertips, savouring the moment, delaying the gratification.
And then, unable to wait any longer, I scrabble for the little golden tag, fingernails scratching for purchase. It tears all of a sudden, and there is that smell of the fresh plastic of an as yet unopened CD case. There's a tchic as the case opens, and there is my CD, full of the shiny promise of new songs to drive out the old. Hysteria.

First thing to check is the insert. Does it have the lyrics? Oh yes. Thank you universe. And then...
Before I take out the CD I realise I didn't check the answer machine. The flashing light has broken and so you can't tell just by looking anymore whether there are any new messages. You have to just press play and see what happens.
“Babe! I miss you. Come over.”

It's his voice. But it can't be. He's...

I replay the message. “Come over. Come over. Come over.” There's a new mantra in my head to replace Hysteria.

I'm in a taxi. The sun has come out and we have the windows down. I've persuaded the driver to put my CD on, and we're singing Have You Ever Needed Someone So Bad at the tops of our voices - his rather more tuneful than mine. It helps to fight the rising Hysteria. If you've never sung Def Leppard in a taxi on a warm sunny day, you should! There is nothing better for lifting your spirits and making you feel that everything is right in the world.

The taxi driver regards me doubtfully. “Are you sure this is the right address?”

I'm not sure. Or rather, I'm sure the address I gave him is correct but this place isn't right. Or is it? There's something niggling at the back of my mind. Hysteria.

I get out of the taxi and walk towards the house. How can he be here? “Come over. Come over. Come over. Babe! I miss you. Come over.”
I'm here. Where is he? I walk inside. There's no door – just a broken wooden board. And yet, I have a picture in my head of red with an old fashioned metal knocker. Hysteria. I push the board and it gives way beneath the slightest of pressure.

Inside the hallway I take the first door on the left. The walls are black where before they had green wallpaper with palm trees. The windows are boarded over. It should be dark, and yet sunlight is still streaming in from somewhere. Hysteria.

I look up. There is nothing above me. There should be a ceiling and above that a bedroom with mirrored wardrobes and the old-fashioned bedspread his granny crocheted for him, and above that the attic. There are only blackened beams… and sky. Hysteria.

“Babe! I miss you. Come over.”

I smell burning. That can’t be right. There’s no fire. And yet I think maybe there is. Or there was. “Babe! I miss you. Come over.” Hysteria.

An old woman comes out of the house next door and throws her arms around me. She's wearing a fleecy hoodie and pink slipper boots with pom poms on. “Oh you poor love! I didn't think we'd ever see you again after - you know.”

After what? Maybe she's a little crazy. But I think I do know after what. I remember we sang Def Leppard. But when? When? Hysteria.

I turn. I run. I trip. I fall.

There are voices. Hazy. Should I recognise them? I open my eyes and everything is too bright, too blurry. There’s a face behind a mask. Where am I? Hysteria.

“Her heart rate is rising.” There’s the needle-sharp prick in my arm. I sleep.

The words of Def Leppard’s Hysteria are on a loop in my head and I know from experience that nothing is going to shift them. Don't get me wrong, I like the song - hell I love the song - but I do not want to listen to it all day.

Someone is holding my hand. My spirits lift. It’s him.

It isn’t. It’s my mum. What is she doing in my bedroom? Why is she holding my hand? Except… this isn’t my bedroom. Where am I?

“Darling, you’re in hospital. You’ve been here for 3 months. There was a fire. You were trapped. The doctors say you’re lucky to be alive.”

“Where’s Ben?” My throat feels funny and I can only whisper it.

“I’m sorry, darling. He’s….”

Hysteria.