This is the beginning of my series of vignettes.

Okay, picture this:

It's 1975. I'm a rebel youth who hates her mother and seeks to escape and defy her for the first time in my life. So, what do I do? Find a destination, pack my bags, and leave. Where do I go? Well, where else? London, England: at the rise of the punk scene.

Being a foreigner and only seventeen with fifty-five dollars to your name is no way to do this. Trust me. So, in saying that, I made it to England fucked by the time zone, fucked with no place to go, and fucked because, you guessed it, my luggage got lost. What the piss could I do?

I walked around the streets for hours, confused and very lost. I have no idea where I was or what the hell I was doing here with no way to get back home safe to Mommy Dearest. The money I'd converted into pounds wasn't even half of what I'd originally had, thereby adding to the fucked factor. So, on the verge of tears, I headed into a local pub to get something to eat.

As soon as I entered the pub, I got looks from some of the men at the bar. I had on a short yellow and black plaid dress, leggings, ratty Doc Martens, and a blazer, after all. The looks were pretty much asked for because I looked like a tramp.

I did my best to avoid the wandering eyes as I stepped up to the counter to order.
"Can I get an order of fries, please?" I asked. The guy behind the counter wrinkled his nose at me and continued to clean out a bar glass.
"Wot?" he inquired in a thick Cockney accent.
"Fries. An order of fries. You have them, don't you?"
He shook his head,
"Sorry, girly. Don't speak American here."
"I, well, damn it." I sighed, defeated, and turned to go when a young guy about twenty grabbed me.
"She'll have chips." He told the man behind the counter.
"Ah, right, right!" He responded and went to get them from the fryer.

"You must be new here, then." The young guy said to me, scratching his head of shaggy, banana yellow hair. I nodded and scuffed my shoe along the floor, staring down at it.
"Yeah, just got here this morning. I don't know shit about this country, either."
My words caused him to laugh heartily.
"Ah, you're fucked, girly."
"You're telling me. I've got nothing but the clothes on my back and thirty pounds. The airport lost my luggage."
"Well, piss," he stated, eyebrows highly arched, "that's fuckin' awful. You got anywhere to stay?"
I looked up at him.
"Are you kidding? Fuck no."

A few moments passed between us before he spoke.
"Can you sing?"
"Excuse me?" I replied, taken back a bit.
"Can you sing? Me and some of my mates are tryin' to start a band. We can't find a fuckin' singer, though."
My eyes widened. Of course I could sing. I grew up on music and was pretty damn skilled with it, too.
"Hell yes, I can sing."
He smiled,
"Great! Come for an audition, after you eat them chips, that is."
"Are you serious?" I asked, incredulous.
"Absofuckinglutely, girly," He responded, still smiling.
"Okay, I will." I replied, broadening his smile.
"Great! I'm Ian, by the way. It's a pleasure." He extended his hand, so I took it.
"Flora."
"'Ey, girl! Chips are ready." The guy yelled. I started to go toward the counter, but Ian stopped me.
"It's on me, Flora. Welcome to England."
I smiled broadly.
"Thanks."
"Yeah, yeah, sure!" he responded cheerfully while passing the guy two pounds, fifty pence.

After eating the fries, Ian took me back to his small flat.
"Hey, hey!" he called upon entering. This place was pretty cruddy and a lot lower than what I was used to, but it was comfortable. Two boys around Ian's age walked into the room: one short with electric blue hair and freckles, and the other slightly taller with brown hair, brown eyes, and hip bones that could stab you if you got too close to them. These boys stood there, looking at me in awe.
"Mikey, Keith, this is Flora. She's new to England and she's going to try out for the band."

The boy with electric blue hair tried not to smile as he nodded.
"Right, right. We'll get to it. What you like?" he asked me, causing me to grimace.
"I don't know. Alice Cooper, Sabbath, stuff like that." My words forced him to break out into a smile.
"Alice Cooper! Keith, put on that record. Sing for us, Floie." Mikey urged. I felt a puke festival coming on at his words, but did as he'd instructed.

I did my best to impress these boys, who could make or break my future here in England. I flailed my arms around and stomped my foot to the beat, wailing with the record. Keith pulled the needle from the record and looked at the other guys.
"We've got a fuckin' singer." he stated as the others nodded in agreement.
"Seriously?" I questioned.
"Shit, yes. You're fucking perfect, Flo."
"And a nice piece of arse." Mikey muttered lowly to himself, but only I heard him. I smiled.
"Great! I'm excited." I exclaimed. Ian smiled.
"You can stay here if you'd like." He informed me.
"But I don't have any money." I responded.
"S'awright. Welcome to the land of squatting. Just buy us a keg every two weeks. That'll cover it."
"Okay!" I cheered, "Thank you so much."
"It's good to have you." He replied. Mikey smirked evilly to himself which caused Keith to hit him.
"Naff off, Mike." he muttered.
"Ah, fuck you, Keith!" Mikey responded.
"Lovely family." Ian stated and placed a hand on my shoulder, "and just look at what we've added to it." his words caused me to smile.

I slept on the floor in the band room with all the instruments and an old sheet as a blanket. I picked up a job at a local grocery a few streets away, offering me just enough to buy the kegs for the boys and a little clothing for myself.

"To The Clit Riders!" Ian stated, raising his glass.
"I know there's one I want to ride." Mikey muttered, lowly, and looked at me. I cringed discreetly.
"To The Clit Riders!" We drank and then Keith raised his glass again.
"To Floie, and welcome to England!"
"Floie!" They cheered.

For once in my life, I was perfectly content. I didn't have the nagging hand of my mother over me. Hell, I barely even remembered her anymore.

Good things never last. It's too true. And while our band was playing shows twice a week, there was hell at the house. I came home one night with my last paycheck from the grocery store and knew that I had to find some way to get a new job to buy the kegs. When I told Ian and the boys that I'd lost my job and was having trouble finding a new one, they told me not to worry about it. We weren't getting paid much for gigs and the boys didn't all work - how could I not worry?
"How will I make up for it?" I asked Keith. He looked at me strangely and pulled me against his razor sharp hips.
"There's a way, Floie." he said softly and pulled my face to his to kiss me roughly. So, that was it. The boys found a way for me to make up for lack of rent and passed me back and forth whenever they needed me. Everyone but Ian knew what was going on.

One night, right before our last show together, Mikey pulled me backstage and told me to be quiet. He pressed me against a wall and slid his hand up my skirt, which led me to bite my lip and grimace. I was nothing more than a cheap fuck to these boys and I should have known that from the start.
"Shh," Mikey coaxed, slipping his fingers inside of me, "you be quiet for me, Floie."
I closed my eyes, but didn't struggle. Then, Ian's voice broke the silence.
"What the fuck is going on?" He shouted, forcing Mikey to back away.
"She ain't paying rent, Ian."
I looked into Ian's eyes, shattering, and saw the same look in them.
"Go and get ready, Mikey. We're on in ten," he instructed, sending Mikey away. I turned my face from him and started to go, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled me back.
"After all I fucking did for you, fucking slag! No fucking respect for anyone. Not even yourself."
"Ian, please, I - "
"Shut up, shut up. Just shut the fuck up! I gave you everything, and you tossed it into the rubbish."
"I'm sorry," I whimpered as he stormed away.

We played the worst show ever that night, and then Ian fucked me in the toilet.
"Did Keith fuck you this hard? Did Mikey like the feel of your mouth on his cock? Did he?" he snarled something along those lines, smacking my head against the wall as tears rolled down my face.
"Stupid cunt." he sneered and spat on me before leaving me ruined on the dirty linoleum. I sat up and grabbed some tissue to wipe the spunk off of my inner thighs, fixed myself, and walked out. The boys had already left and the next band was on: a five-piece called The Filthy Sckuf.

The lead-singer had the most obnoxious voice I have ever heard, and the band could barely play, but their presence amazed me. Convincing myself that I'd have a place to sleep that night, I ordered a pint and watched them play and almost got spit on by the bassist. When they finished, I had both a feeling of relief and a rush of uneasiness. The snide singer burped loudly and came over to the bar.
"'Ey, man, get me a pint, then." he sneered, spitting across the room. I cringed and turned away from him as he started coughing horrendously and the bar keep passed him a pint.

"How come he didn't have to pay?" I demanded, appalled.
"Cos he's a performer."
"So what? That's not fair. I played here, too."
The snide singer downed his pint and looked at me.
"Oh, fuck off. Your music's shit anyway." As he said this, my jaw dropped to the floor and I threw the rest of my pint in his face.
"Fuck you, it's all I've got! You can't even sing!"
He growled at me and pushed me, then spat on me.
"And you sing too pretty. You're a fucking fraud."

I jolted from the floor and pushed him against a wall.
"Don't you call me a fraud." I told him in an icy tone. His deep blue eyes raged with fury.
"I don't hit birds, dearie, but you're fuckin' pushin' it."
I sneered and slapped him.
"You don't have any idea what I've already been through tonight."
"Baby, you don't know what I've been through in my life." He shot back.

The bassist came over cheering, with a forty ounce beer in his hands.
"Hey, John! You gonna have it off with her, then?" He laughed and sipped his beer.
"Close yer gob, Alfie, for fuck's sake." he snapped, but Alfie didn't lose his smile.
"Right, right! Hey, Dave, Charlie, Jimbo!" He called to the other members of the band before joining them, despite the fact that they were too busy with a group of girls to notice him.

I looked back at John,
"You gonna let me go, or you gonna keep me pinned to this wall all night and waste my time?" he snarled and I raised a brow.
"What's the matter with you? You don't like being pinned to a wall by a girl? Are you too much of a pussy to push me off?"
John glared at me and pushed me hard then brushed past me.
"Cunt." he grumbled under his breath as he lumbered off towards the rest of the band, but I followed him.
"Piss off!" he shouted, "what do you care if I got a pint for free? Christ, you're blowing everything out of proportion!"
"You called me a fraud." I glowered.
"You are," he began, "but we all are in our own way. 'Cept me. I'm realer than real."
"I think you're just a cocky bastard." I retorted, coldly, sending him a mean sneer. He raised his fist, and as he was about to hit me, Alfie grabbed him arm.
"Come on, John. Stop actin' about! Buy the bird a drink."
John looked at him as though he'd lost it.
"Yeah, man! Save the abuse for a bunk-up!" Charlie, the curly blonde drummer, called before clinking his glass against the two guitarists' and downing his pint.
"I wouldn't shag this bird." John grumbled and spat on the floor in my direction.
"Oh, bollocks!" Alfie exclaimed, incredulous, "you'd hop into her knickers in a flash!"

John shook his head and started swearing to himself.
"I'm fucking out of here. I'll see you tomorrow, mates," he looked at me, "hope I never see you again." He snarled and gave me the look of death.
"You lie, John. But don't worry; I'll be at every gig you play from now on." I kissed him hard on the lips and the band cheered. When I pulled away, I noticed just how red his had become, and smirked to myself, then patted his cheek.
"Goodnight." I cooed before putting on my blazer and walking out of the club.

I left in a haughty manner, overly proud of myself for creating such a scene, but the magic didn't last. I took no more than five steps when I saw Keith approaching me with a duffle of my things.
"What's going on?" I panicked.
"Ian wants you gone. Don't come back no more, Floie."
"But, why?"
Keith threw the duffle at me.
"He don't like sharin'," be began, "wanted you for himself."
"What?"
"He wanted you for himself." He repeated and spat on my shoes before walking away.

I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, letting the news sink in. I was homeless, now. I had no money, no job, no food, no home. No one would even give a damn about that. Defeated, I sank onto the sidewalk, pressing my back against the brick, and hugged my knees tightly to my chest. I heard loud, garbled voices coming from the club, and soon, The Filthy Sckuf emerged, singing in a drunken stupor. They didn't even see me. I noticed that John was not with them, and too soon after that observation, I heard that awful cough and spit routine. He walked out of the club and spat on the sidewalk then started to walk in my direction, so I buried my head in my knees.

"What you doing down there, then?" he asked, "don't you want to go home to your boys and have a bunk-up?"
I bit my lip.
"I can't go home, and, unfortunately, I've had to fuck them for the past four months cos I couldn't get a job for rent." I said softly and looked up at him.
"You're joking," he stated, incredulous and slightly appalled.
"No, I'm not." I replied and got up then picked up my duffle, "I don't have a clue where I'm going now, but I've got to go find somewhere to go."
I began to walk away, but he called,
"Hey! Wait!" and I turned around as he rushed over to me, "you want to come to my gaff tonight? It's not much, but it's better than a gutter - well, maybe not, but, it's a place to sleep."
"You're really unpredictable, John." I told him, shaking my head, "Christ, I thought you hated me."
"No, I don't hate," he started, "I just make people think I do so they fuck off." He smiled queerly at me.
"Would you really give me a place to stay for a little while?" I questioned.
"Yeah, sure. I think I can stand you for an hour or two."
I sneered and hit him playfully.

"Come on, get the fuck, the train stops runnin' in twenty minutes." He grabbed my wrist and tugged me down the street towards the station.
"But I don't have any money." I told him.
"Christ, you've been in England for over a year and you don't know how the subway works? Watch and learn, girly." He looked quickly around the station then bolted under the turnstile, taking me with him.
"Ouch." I whimpered and rubbed my head.
"Yeah, that happens sometimes. Come on."
We rushed down to the terminal and hopped onto the train seconds before the doors shut.
"Christ, what a rush." John stated, attempting to catch his breath, "What the fuck is your name, by the way?"
"I'm Flora." I responded and he shook his head.
"Fucking Americans."

When we got to his building, I could not believe how filthy his apartment was, and how little like a home it looked. He had no real furniture other than a few ratty cushions, a television, and a tipsy cardboard box with a few half-filled bottles of booze and an ashtray.
"Ah, home," he proudly said, "you'll meet the flatmates soon enough." he informed me.
"Who else lives here?" I asked causing John to grin.
"Oh, you know, the roaches, the rats, some mice. They don't hurt you if you don't hurt them."
I cringed discreetly at his words and simply nodded.

John stretched out on the cushions and lit a cigarette, but I stood still and looked around, nervously, for the flatmates.
"Mind if I shower?" I inquired. He shrugged.
"Do what you want. Just don't leave any girly products lying about." He responded and turned on the TV.

I wanted to wash all of my skin off, just peel away the layers until I was just bone. I don't know how long I was in there, but I turned into a lobster. I just stood there and let the water hit me, just staring at the grimy tile wall. John came into the toilet and yelled,
"Hey, Flora! You've been in there for twenty minutes! Come on, then!"
But I made no response. I sank to the bottom of the tub and let the tears run down my face, washed away by the water, over and over, but they didn't stop flowing.
John called again and when I made no response, he pulled the shower curtain and saw me there, sitting down, curled up, and crying.

Something changed in his face at that moment, for he, too, looked as sore as I was. He turned off the water and wrapped me in a towel, then he helped me out of the shower.
"Don't let those cunts ruin your life, Flora. Don't let the bastards win." He urged. My head fell against his shoulder and I wrapped my arms around him, but he did not respond to me. He slowly patted me on the back and left me to dress.

A month or so went by, and I told John I was going to find another place to go since I felt I had outworn my welcome. As I opened the door and took one step out, he stopped me.
"Don't go."
I turned to look at him, but before I could say anything, he pulled me inside, slammed the door, and stared at me. "You're staying." he declared, eyes firmly fixed on mine. I went to speak, but he pulled me into his arms and kissed me fervently, honestly, and I returned the kiss in the same manner. A spark had grown into a fire between us.

I didn't leave that day, or the next, or the next. I didn't want to; because even though Johnny and I had nothing more than each other, it was all we needed. And all I'd ever wanted.