My Toxin

Chapter 11

The evening air was crisp and cool as Kemi and I strolled down the cobbled streets toward the pub hosting the open mic night. The city was alive with twilight, the sky painted in hues of orange and pink as the sun dipped below the horizon. Despite the beauty of the evening, I couldn't shake the undercurrent of tension. Kemi and I had agreed to set aside our differences for the night, united by our shared goal of supporting Marjorie. But the unspoken strain between us lingered, a reminder of the complexities we had yet to resolve.

The pub, tucked into a lively corner of the university district, buzzed with energy. Warm light spilled from its windows, and the murmur of conversations mixed with laughter drifted into the street. Inside, the exposed brick walls and vintage décor gave the space a cosy, intimate feel. We managed to find a small table near the stage just as the first performer took the mic, their voice drawing the crowd into an attentive hush.

The acts came and went, each met with enthusiastic applause. The atmosphere was electric, the anticipation building with every passing moment. My focus, however, was firmly on Marjorie. I knew how much this performance meant to her, and after our recent conversation, I was eager to hear the words she'd poured her heart into.

When her name was finally called, the room fell silent. Marjorie stepped onto the stage with a quiet confidence, her simple, elegant dress flowing softly around her as she moved. The spotlight cast her in a golden glow, highlighting the determination in her expression.

She approached the microphone, taking a steadying breath before beginning her poem. Her voice rang out, clear and powerful, carrying her words across the room:

"Invisible barriers, built so high,
Microaggressions, like whispers that lie.
They smile and nod, but their eyes betray,
A judgement unspoken, each and every day."

Each verse carried the weight of her experiences, her vulnerability laid bare. The audience hung on her every word, the pub silent save for the rhythmic cadence of her voice:

"In classrooms filled with unspoken divides,
Invisibility cloaks, hiding the lies.
I stand here today, my voice breaking free,
Invisible no longer, for all to see."

When she finished, the room erupted into applause. Her gaze swept the crowd, her vulnerability giving way to defiance as she absorbed the reaction. I joined in the applause, my chest swelling with pride and a tinge of guilt. Her words were raw and honest, and though I understood only fragments of the pain she described, I was determined to learn more.

Marjorie joined Kemi and me at the table afterward, a mixture of relief and satisfaction evident in her demeanour. We were soon joined by Jordan, another performer from earlier. He was tall, charismatic, and exuded an easy confidence that immediately filled the space.

"Marjorie, that was incredible," Jordan said warmly, his admiration clear.

"Thanks, Jordan," Marjorie replied, her smile genuine. "This is Alex."

Jordan extended a hand toward me. "Nice to meet you. I performed earlier too—spoken word about community and identity."

I shook his hand, doing my best to mask the discomfort growing in my chest. His easy charm and the way Marjorie's face lit up at his compliments were hard to ignore.

"You've got a gift, Marjorie," Jordan continued, his tone sincere. "Your poem was inspiring."

Her cheeks flushed slightly, and I could see how much the praise meant to her. "Thank you, Jordan. That means a lot."

As the conversation flowed, I noticed the subtle undercurrents of flirtation between them—laughter that lingered a bit too long, glances exchanged that carried a warmth I wasn't sure how to interpret. My stomach churned, my attempts to remain composed increasingly strained.

The tension finally came to a head when I stood abruptly, my frustration boiling over. "Marjorie, we need to talk."

Her expression shifted instantly, irritation flashing across her face. "What is it now, Alex?"

"I feel like I'm being pushed aside," I said, my voice edged with frustration. "I came here to support you, but it feels like I don't even exist."

"Seriously?" she shot back, her tone sharp. "I'm just talking to my friends. What's your problem?"

"My problem is that I'm here, and it's like I'm invisible!"

Marjorie's face hardened, her voice rising. "God, Alex, you're not my flipping boyfriend, so stop acting like you are!"

Her words struck like a slap, the weight of them settling heavily in my chest. The room around us seemed to blur, and I was acutely aware of the stares of those nearby.

Jordan, sensing the tension, tried to mediate. "Hey, maybe we should all just take a moment to cool down."

Kemi, however, saw an opportunity. She tugged on my arm. "Come outside, Alex. Let's take a breather."

Out in the cool night air, Kemi turned to me, her tone sharp and calculated. "You know, Alex, maybe Marjorie and Jordan make more sense together. They just... get each other in a way you probably never will."

Her words were a dagger, twisting in the vulnerable parts of me I tried to keep hidden. "What are you trying to say, Kemi?"

"I'm saying that sometimes you need to recognise when you're out of your depth," she replied, her gaze unyielding. "Jordan understands her struggles, her world. You don't. Maybe it's time to accept that and step back."

Anger and hurt surged through me, but I didn't have the words to respond. Instead, I turned away from her, the weight of her words pressing heavily on my shoulders.

Back inside, I grabbed my coat and slipped out quietly. I couldn't stay any longer. As I hailed a taxi and climbed inside, the city lights blurred into streaks of colour outside the window. My mind churned with the events of the evening—Marjorie's performance, the connection she shared with Jordan, Kemi's biting words.

The journey home was a blur, my emotions a tangled mess of anger, sadness, and resignation. I knew I had a long way to go in understanding Marjorie's world, but for now, I was left questioning where I truly fit in her life—and whether I ever truly had.