Free The Panopticon by Jenni Fagan Page A

fast to grab a hold, or breathe, or form thoughts. Shrinkingshrinkingshrinkingshrinking. Nothing – gone.
    There’s nothing to hold onto out there. Not a single thing. Fuck all – you are just floating in space. It’s worse than back-to-back panic attacks. It’s worse than psychosis. It’s worse than getting fucked after you said no, and it’s worse than not knowing anything about who you are or where you’re from.
    It’s worse than the polis fucking with you just for fun, or cos they see you as a nothing, a no mark, easy meat – just like all the other freaks do. It’s worse than listening tae kids you dinnae know cry themselves to sleep, or watching your twelve-year-old pal go on the game. It’s worse than your ma jagging up on Christmas Eve. Or not knowing anything about someone other than their da raped them, or their uncle abused them, or their brother’s been fucking them up the arse since they were three. The shrinking can take you from person back tae a pinprick in seconds, and once the pinprick disappears you – are gone.
    Nothing but empty space.
    I have tae get in that door. I have to look. It could be full of fuck-all, or it could be the experiment, holding up test-tubes of champagne, ready to toast their long-lost specimen – finally come home.
    I stick my head around the office door. Eric’s sat behind Joan’s desk with his feet up.
    ‘I need Tampax.’
    ‘Okay, Anais.’
    What a tosser! Don’t be cool about it, Eric, you hate blood, you hate fannies – I can tell.
    ‘Like today would be good.’
    He’s looking at me like he cannae believe something I’ve done, and I realise he has my files half-open on the desk. He’s reading year five. He’s not got tae the good stuff yet, he’s still on the phenomenon bit. The psychologist bit. The child-that-cannae-show-love shite.
    ‘Uh, okay, Anais, when I’m ready.’
    Eric’s relishing the power. He’s on the lamest power trip in the world – the decider of how long it takes for me to get a tampon. Wow, Eric, the heady fucking heights your degree is taking you to!
    I’m glad I never had to ask him for a fanny-pad. I started a right good fire with a bunch of fanny-pads once, but that’s all they’re good for. I even hate the way it sounds … fanny-pad. I umnay keen on sanitary towel either, or pants – or vagina. Vagina sounds like a venereal disease. Or like the name for some snobby rich German countess’s daughter; her entry into society would be announced in some glossy magazine, and underneath it would read … Vagina Schneider at the débutante ball, wearing an electric-blue Vera Wang – a true glory to behold .
    Vagina. It’s a shit word, ask anyone. It’s not like cock. Cock is a good clean word. Pat was a big fan of the word cock. And cunt. She said if two words ever got married, it should be cock and cunt.
    Eric shuffles around, he makes sure the petty cash is locked up, he puts a pencil back in Joan’s pen mug on the desk.
    ‘I’m bleeding like a fucking haemophiliac here.’
    ‘Can you spell that?’ he snaps.
    ‘Can you spell, fucking arsehole!’
    ‘Dinnae swear, Anais.’
    He picks up a large set of keys and walks ahead of me. At the store cupboard he shoves a key in, but he cannae get it to turn at first.
    ‘What kind of sanitary products would you like?’
    ‘The kind you stuff in your fanny to stop blood?’
    He steps away from the door, his cheeks burning. Seriously – this cunt’s a total retard. Has he never had tae get Tampax for any of the lassies before?
    ‘Go and select one then.’
    ‘I umnay picking a diamond ring, Eric. You dinnae select one , you need the whole fucking box.’
    ‘You have an attitude problem, Anais.’
    ‘No fucking shit, Sherlock.’
    Step into the big old cupboard. Toothbrushes, bonus, two in the back pocket; four combs, a bag of rubber bands. Further down, at the back, there are some tools for the Hoover and a flathead screwdriver. The screwdriver will be perfect.
    ‘Are