Nothing F*cking Matters

A white rabbit hops out of the manhole in the middle of the road.

I jerk back, and the sharp honk of a car whooshes past my ears. I don’t scream; it’s not in my character, but my hands have instinctively found themselves over my ears because I never have liked loud noises.

“We’re going to be late!” The white rabbit is frantic, and I’m contemplating schizophrenia. Why the fuck am I in Lewis Carroll’s tale?

“Late for what?” Why am I talking to a rabbit? Why is the rabbit talking to me?

I must be going insane because I’m running after it: over the road, around the town square, I pay no mind to the passing siren-led vehicles; they’re nothing I’m not used to. My lungs begin to burn, and for a moment I swear I taste copper. God, I am really out of shape.

“Where are you taking me?” I call out after the rabbit, but it’s useless, really.

I watch the bouncing bunny through hazy sight, the high-speed chase has winded me. It’s quite embarrassing, but no one around really seems to care. I guess that’s the beauty of city life: no one gives a shit. Though if someone did, I might’ve had some bloody sense knocked into me by now.

The white rabbit slips behind a red phone box. The thing doesn’t work anymore; it’s really for the tourists. I follow his fluffy white tail until I’m behind the red cubicle too.

Another manhole, great.

The rabbit beckons me urgently before slipping down it. I’m suddenly thankful for the sprint; maybe I’ve shed a few pounds, and I’ll slide down this thing like oil.

“Why am I being so obedient to a goddamn rabbit?” I mutter to myself. Because it is exciting, I think.

I have always admired fantasy books: Alice Through the Looking-Glass, His Dark Materials, The Chronicles of Narnia, Peter Pan — they all present the same idea of slipping from one world into another, if even just briefly. To come out of it another person, someone better, more exciting, someone who can see life through a different lens and appreciate the things they did not before.

The heroine always prevails. Maybe after this, I shall wake up in my bed as if it didn’t happen and pretend it didn’t matter. But I would go on with my life no longer believing in pointlessness, that nothing fucking matters, because this one thing happened to me, and whether it was real or not, through it I learned all of life’s most profound lessons and therefore, everything matters.

Well, here I go.

I plummet and pray I don’t land in the radioactive sewage of South London. There’s nothing worse than a public toilet in Croydon; using one is punishment enough; to go splashing in its contents might be a fate worse than death.

God, what if I am an idiot and I do die?

A bit too late to contemplate that one, Nicole.

I’m spread pathetically like a flying squirrel; gravity takes ownership of my limbs, and I see the ground getting closer. It looks like another street.

“Oh shit.” I squeeze my eyes shut and brace myself for impact.

Goodbye, cruel world.

My hands are held firmly at the top of my head, arms braced on either side as the rough-textured pavement presses into my elbows and my forehead. I feel a strong urge to kiss the ground, but something fluffy tickles my nose and causes me to sneeze.

“How the fuck am I alive?” I say, bewildered, the white rabbit looks down at me over his glasses as he clicks at his pocket watch.

“Not a moment too late,” he breathes out, relieved.

“I don’t think that’s what you said in your book.” I raise an eyebrow as I rub the loose gravel off my skin.

“We are not in my book,” he replies, and I find myself unable to rebut.

The hot sun warms my skin, and the smell of warm tarmac is a nostalgic sensory experience that triggers me to check my surroundings.

“Why are we here?”

I slowly stand to my feet and look at the neighbourhood I once called my home. The world is washed in a warm hue, but the street resembles that of every run-down housing estate in London. Somewhat dilapidated houses; there are random graffiti tags on red brick fences that are half missing, probably knocked down by a car or something. There’s a nearby park that’s the cause of the familiar rubbery scent; teenagers occupy the swings, smoking something they probably shouldn’t be and playing 21 Seconds by So Solid Crew in a blaringly antisocial manner.

I see myself, much younger; I recognise her from the pictures. I’m crouched down looking at the yellow flower that’s sprouting from the cracks in the pavement in front of my house. I remember this.

“Is this real or not?” the rabbit asks me.

“You tell me,” I reply. For all I know, this is all just a bizarre episode, a sign that I really have hit rock bottom and should probably check myself into a mental hospital.

“I meant the memory.”

“I’m not quite sure,” I admit.

There’s a house in front of me that I don’t quite know, but I understand I once did. It’s small, run-down, and almost exactly like every other house on this street. Under the summer sun, it looks inviting, and I can feel myself itching to look inside. Something tells me that I can’t. I don’t remember what it looks like in there.

“This is my first memory. I don’t know why I remember this; nothing happens. I just remember looking at this flower and thinking it’s incredibly beautiful.”

I laugh before adding, “I also still play this song to this day.” I point to the lads on the swings. “My brother says that only chavs listened to this song when it first came out. He might have a point, but I think it being the first song I remember is kinda funny.”

I have a habit of oversharing with everyone. I decided not to stop myself a while ago, within reason, of course; I still possess the ability to read the room, I will not go spilling secrets to strangers for an unsolicited therapy session, but why should I have to be embarrassed by my life? It happens, shit happens, you own it, occasionally you laugh.

“What’s so funny about it?” The white rabbit asks.

"Just the irony. I think it’s funny that we put people in boxes- labels like chavs and whatnot- to put people down, when really, if you listen to this song, it’s catchy. I argue that it’s good. How ironic that we try so hard to run away from these labels like they’re curses when, at the end of the day, we’re not all that different. I like this song too; it brings back memories, as I’m sure it does for them.

“I think we all just care too much about what other people think. Who cares if ‘chavs’ like this song? Why should that stop me from enjoying this music? You can’t run away from an experience you’ve already lived for the sake of public opinion.”

My little toddler-sized arms wrap around my knees, and my head bops from side to side to the song’s beat as I continue to stare at the flower, like the moment itself is stuck in a time loop, but the song still plays out as normal. My little ringletted curls were tucked under a pink bucket hat, the same one I had in several family photos. Who knows if this is what I actually wore this day, but I like to think I did.

I kick some gravel under my shoe.

“My mum tells me stories of this house. I don’t really remember it; we moved out of here when I was four. In all actuality, I don’t know if this memory is real or not, but I have convinced myself that it is. I asked my mum about it once, and she told me that the park was real, but she couldn’t really confirm anything else. Says it would’ve been unusual for me to be outside by myself so young, but she did tell me that when I was young, I got stuck in the cat flap.”

I laugh because the idea of it is ridiculous. The white rabbit’s ears twitch, but he doesn’t comment or laugh aloud; he’s just listening.

“Apparently, I was crying and wailing while she doused me in oil to slide me out. She said she was fuming. My clothes were ruined, and money was really tight back then, so it was a big deal. I don’t know what would have possessed me to do such a thing, but sometimes I wonder if I succeeded once before, and maybe that’s how I ended up out here alone.”

The white rabbit moves for the first time since our arrival. He sniffs the air like he has only just noticed its scent, and his little paws skip up and down as he feels the warmth of the worn-out cement beneath us.

“This feels real,” he concludes.

“I am not so sure,” I reply.

“Memories are not always as easily defined by what happens in them, the small details on how you got there or what music was playing. The foundation of memories is feeling. And this one feels beautiful.”

A small smile escapes me. I can’t help but agree. It was a glorious day, and I feel relieved that this is the first memory I have.

“It’s funny,” I begin.

“You say that a lot,” he interrupts, and I shoot him daggers. I hate being interrupted; it makes me lose my flow, but I recover.

“That flower is a dandelion. A weed. Now, when they grow, I cut them down because they’re not something that belongs. I do not like how they ooze when they are plucked, and I once cried when I was little because I thought that I made it bleed. After that, I did not like them at all, but before then, they were a small joy.”

We contemplate the happiness on little-me’s face for a while. I think I like this memory. I don’t understand why I’m here, but if anything, I enjoy being nonchalant and somewhat spontaneous, and so far, this has not been so bad.

The rabbit takes out his watch and bounces up and down in consternation.

“We’re going to be late!” He sprints away from me, and my eyes widen.

Not this again. I don’t have the lung capacity.

I follow his hysterical prancing despite my apprehension of physical exercise. I don’t have anywhere else to go, and I don’t particularly fancy being stuck in one memory forever, so really, battling exertion is my only choice.

But perhaps this is the price of my life-changing, eye-opening, grand adventure.