My Toxin

Chapter 13

The drive back to my university apartment was the perfect opportunity to reflect on the weekend I'd just had in Birmingham. For the first time in weeks, I felt truly relaxed, the weight of everything with Marjorie temporarily lifted. Ayo's relentless energy, Chanel's no-nonsense advice, and even our drunken dance-off were exactly what I'd needed. By the time I pulled into the parking lot outside my building, I felt a quiet sense of clarity creeping in—a lightness I hadn't realised I'd been missing.

As I unlocked the door to my flat, the familiar chaos of my living space greeted me like an old friend. Books and lecture notes were scattered across the coffee table, and an abandoned mug of tea sat on the edge, long forgotten. It was a sharp contrast to the carefree energy of the weekend, but it was grounding in its own way. I dropped my bag by the door and let out a long exhale, preparing myself to settle back into reality.

I was halfway through mentally organising my to-do list when my phone buzzed, interrupting my thoughts. A quick glance at the screen showed an email notification from my father's private investigator. My curiosity instantly piqued, and I opened it without hesitation. Inside was a detailed report on Kemi and Jordan, and as I read through it, my emotions flickered between grim satisfaction and unease.

The report on Kemi was troubling. A criminal record for arson stood out immediately—she'd set fire to her foster parents' house, citing years of racism and abuse as her justification. The accompanying details painted a picture of someone who had clearly been through hell, and while I couldn't condone her actions, I couldn't entirely blame her either. Jordan's file was less severe but still noteworthy. He'd been detained during protests that had spiralled out of control, though he hadn't been formally charged. Still, his involvement made me uneasy. I couldn't help but feel validated in my initial suspicions, though the complexity of their stories kept gnawing at me.

As I was trying to process the report, my phone buzzed again. This time, it was a message from Marjorie, sent the previous night:

00:25 Princess: Alex, where are you?
00:49 Princess: Alex, what the hell? You just disappeared?

I sighed, guilt flickering in the pit of my stomach. I'd been so wrapped up in Ayo's world that I hadn't even checked my messages. The thought of Marjorie waiting for a reply, wondering where I was, left a bitter taste in my mouth. But I reminded myself why I'd taken a step back—it wasn't out of malice but necessity.

I decided to continue keeping my distance, at least for the time being. Chanel's advice echoed in my mind: I needed to work on myself first, to educate myself and grow into someone who could truly understand Marjorie's world. With that in mind, I threw myself into self-improvement.

I read everything I could about systemic racism, civil rights, and social inequalities. I joined discussions on campus, attended seminars, and made a conscious effort to listen more than I spoke. Words like "redlining" and "microaggressions" took on new meaning, no longer abstract concepts but real, painful realities for people like Marjorie. It was humbling and overwhelming, but it was a start.

The gym became another outlet. The routine of lifting weights and running on the treadmill grounded me, giving me a space to work through my frustrations and channel my energy. I began to feel stronger—not just physically but mentally. It wasn't a solution to everything, but it helped.

Chanel and I stayed in touch, our conversations growing more frequent. She opened up about her own struggles, including a complicated encounter with her ex. I listened, offering the same support she'd given me, and in doing so, I realised how much I'd been leaning on Marjorie for emotional support without considering the burden it placed on her. Chanel's perspective was invaluable, and our friendship became a surprising source of clarity.

Still, I couldn't let go of Marjorie entirely. I found myself checking in on her, though not in the way I should have. The cameras I'd installed in her apartment—under the pretext of protecting her—became my guilty lifeline.

One evening, as I was reviewing lecture notes, a notification from the camera app lit up my phone. I hesitated, my finger hovering over the screen, before giving in and opening the live feed.

Marjorie was on the sofa, curled up with a book. She wore a pink pyjama set, her hair tied back loosely. She looked serene, but there was a quiet sadness in her expression that I couldn't ignore. I ached to reach out, to ask her what was wrong, but I knew I couldn't. Not now.

I closed the app, the guilt clawing at my chest. This wasn't right. Watching her like this wasn't the answer, but I couldn't bring myself to stop.

The days turned into a week, and I threw myself deeper into my routine. I felt proud of the progress I was making—in the gym, in my studies, in my understanding of the issues that mattered to Marjorie. But no matter how much I learned, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was falling short.

The weight of Kemi's report lingered in the back of my mind. Should I tell Marjorie? Would she even care? Revealing what I knew would mean exposing how I knew it, and that was a line I wasn't sure I was ready to cross.

By Saturday, the distance I'd tried to maintain was crumbling. My resolve was slipping, and I found myself longing for any excuse to see her, to hear her voice. Watching her through the cameras wasn't enough anymore, but I didn't know how to bridge the gap without making things worse.

That evening, with the gym off-limits due to overtraining, I settled for a home workout. The familiar rhythm of my routine provided a temporary escape, my mind blissfully blank for the first time all week.

Then came the knock.

I froze mid-rep, the sound cutting through the quiet of my flat. Before I could react, the unmistakable click of the electric key followed, and the door swung open.

Marjorie stood in the doorway, her expression thunderous. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw set in a way that told me I was in trouble.

"Marjorie," I said, my voice faltering as I straightened up, still gripping the dumbbell.

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a sharp movement. "You've been ignoring me, Alex," she said, her tone ice-cold. "Care to explain why?"