A/N: Despite always being a bit pissed off the Sym didn't die in the end (Sorry to all the fans of the ending, but I just thought It would've wrapped the story up so much better), I wrote the beginning of this months ago and found it again yesterday. Title from "Dismembering and Forgetting in Titus Andronicus". It's only a one shot, a bit random, inspired from me just being temporarily a little angry at the world…

The soft strings of sleep are pulling her in but someone keeps slicing them loose. Her head jerks like a broken doll. As a torrent of realisation hits, she focuses on who is really beside her. Not him. Shit, of course, not him. A shiver slithers down her spine and she closes her eyes. What if it was him? What if she was there beside him in the freezing cold of the pole with the whispering wind tearing scratches on her cheeks and his whispering voice tearing up words in his mouth and putting them back together in such a way that makes her shiver but not from the cold no not at all because she is warm from him.

The stuffy smoky pub is mocking her. Its colourful carpet and richly designed bar stools are a far cry from the blank slates waiting for her. She likes the white canvases with their pictures lurking just below the surface, waiting to be scraped into view. This is different. It is hazy and she can hardly see the people at the table next to her, never mind miles and miles to the desolate horizon.

His arm could be someone else's. The fold of his body which fits hers almost perfectly could be someone else's. But not his voice; so harsh and dry. Not his face; so foreign, so Young. And not his kiss.

She told herself that it was just a childhood infatuation. That it should be forgotten and she should move on. But how could she move on when his face was just sitting at the front of her mind, in every conversation, every scene she played out as she tried to live her life. There was only one way, and that was to replace him. Let the stream of faces blur together in her mind. Replace him with real people, real guys who she could gossip about with girlfriends at late night slumber parties. Real people, real experiences, not just stuck in her head.

So here she is, in a pub somewhere around the south bank with a guy next to her smoking a splif and lazily offering it sideways as he discusses match of the day or some such with his gang friends. She's too drunk to remember his name, but he hasn't even asked hers, so she doubts it's really of importance. A long, hard drag and her brain fogs up. The colours stand out and she recoils, burying herself in his shoulder. She hears a thousand laughs mocking her and screws up her face in protest.

"Lil' bit of pot too much for this one 'ere?"

"Well, she's gotta be a lightweight to be this fucked out of it already!"

More laughter. Someone waves a hand in front of her face.

My face.

It's me.

I bat the hand away lazily and groan. Someone whispers something to the guy I am draped around. He nods emphatically and sniggers. One of them on the other side of the table is staring down my dress. I'll admit I haven't done much to cover up, but seriously? I tell him not too politely to fuck off and shift his eyes somewhere else. The one next to him jeers.

"Oi, mate, ya just got owned!"

A scantily dressed waitress (though I guess I'm not one to talk in my current state of deshabillé) comes over and takes some of the empty glasses. I'd not realised quite how much we'd got through. The boys all stare at her as she bends over, and I think they know her already.

"A'right, Charlotte? How's business?"

"Steady, mostly thanks to you lot." I can't tell whether or not the smile plastered on her face is genuine.

"Well, Charlie, ya know how us lot roll…" The sentence is left open. I feel like I'm missing an inside joke.

"Yeah, I do, and it's a bloody good thing I don't go spreading it around, ain't it?"

She turns and walks away, to the whoops and cheers of the guys at the sight of her retreating behind. Did I imagine it? The look in her eyes when she glanced at me, saying that last little sentence? Probably. I'm not really in a fit state to trust my senses. I look towards the bar. There she is, mixing some sort of something for a similar looking group of guys. She must feel herself being watched, because she glances my way. There is a flash of unmistakeable pity in her eyes. A brief, almost imperceptible shake of her head, and then she's gone. Drink on the counter, a sneaky grin at the laddish boys, money in her overflowing bra – which will no doubt earn her a few extra quid by the end of the night - and she's off out the door. Was she warning me? But of what? My mind is too fogged up, fuzzy like the radio when it's not quite tuned in properly. And as soon as the thoughts are there, they are gone, and I don't really care. All I want tonight is to forget Titus. To be a normal teenage girl for once.

I've been pretty fucking depressed lately. And I haven't heard from Titus for ages. So I've got to forget him. I've got to get out of this pit of misery and slashing arteries, and forgetting him is the answer. And this is the only way. My gaze flicks back up to our table. A couple of them, indistinguishable from the rest, stand up, briefly smack knuckles with the others and disappear into the bright lights that riddle the night south of the river. Three or four remain. I think one is coming back, yes, there he is. He sits down, peering at me uncertainly, then grinning, almost unkindly as he catches my gaze. The conversation goes on.

Time has passed. It could have been half an hour, or maybe three. It's all the same to little old me. Suddenly, I am hoiked roughly to my feet and what's-his-name slams his arm around my waist, hauling mine more firmly around his shoulders. We are stumbling along a dimly lit street, the cobbles uneven under my heels. I don't normally wear them, but tonight, why not? The two remaining guys jostle and argue boyishly about something I'm not privy to.

All at once I hear "I'm off mate" from the other one.

"No way! What about the night still being so fucking young and all that?"

"Not for me; places to go. Just take that one and do whatever the fuck ya want,"

"Haha, alright, sounds pretty banging to me," and they both explode with laugher as we career off down a dim, stinking side alley and the other guy walks away in the opposite direction, lighting up as he goes and smashing a stella against the wall.

As we stumble on, I start to feel the cold. I am aware of him talking at me, but I'm not listening. Memories overwhelm me as I remember the good sweet cold of the south. I pull my free arm around myself and involuntarily shiver with chill and pleasure all at once.

"Ah, you cold baby?" I try to shake my head. Turning, I look into his eyes as they are leering down at me, like I am his prey. I suddenly want to get out. Calm down, says a voice in my head. Titus? I think rapidly, but it's not, it's just my own drunken thoughts. Calm down, you're not running away, there's nothing to be scared of, just stay here with him. Do you want to forget Titus or not? Do you want to be happy? Be normal?

"Ya shoulda told me you were cold – I can help with that." I presume he is going to give me his jacket, but before I know it I am rammed up against a wall. My heel snaps beneath my stumble. It falls off and my foot sinks into an ice-cold brown puddle. The water seeps up my leg and I try to move but his weight is on top of me. I am pinned there, his face staring into mine.

Suddenly he's kissing me again. It's more ferocious than earlier in the night; he's caught me now, lured me in, there's no need for pretence. I try to relax into it, but the feel of the brick is coarse on my back and now he's lifted me up off the ground, and the brick has scraped my shoulders and I can feel my blood trickle down and down. The chilly night has done something to clear my head. The booze and the fags and the grass shift, but the bottom line is I still want to get over Titus.

I grip his neck and lean down onto him, my hands moving up to his face, now nearly cruel-looking with the kick of it all. His arms are around me, exploring the small of my back and wrenching up my dress as I arch into him. The sounds of the night surround us and reality sinks in. I am down a skanky alleyway in London, fucking around with a nameless guy.

But the moment for escape is gone. It's far too late. My weight sits on his forearms as I sit on them, the shock of the cold suddenly on my fanny as he yanks off my knickers. Before I know it, he has thrust his fingers inside me plunging them deeper and deeper all at once as I gasp.
"Oh, ya like that, do ya? Ya lil' sket!" I am too surprised to respond. I feel him exploring roughly, practically scratching away at my innards. The digits are jerked out of me and wiped roughly on my inner thigh. He grips my arse as I come plunging down again, the wall grating my back once more. His trousers are round his ankles and I hadn't even noticed them fall. A small shriek erupts from the back of my throat as I see his hard cock sneering up at me maliciously.

"Come on, ya whore… Here and now, tha's right, I'll have ya here… and… now…" My feet crash to the ground, hard. The ankle with heel still attached buckles and I squeal. "Tha's it, hussy, up against the wall," and I am spun round, shoved heavily against the crude brick, face first.

And abruptly he is inside me. I buckle slightly with the force of it all, which he seems to take as encouragement. He thrusts deeper inside me, gripping my waist as I am forced off the ground. The pain in my forehead thuds where it struck the wall, just as deep inside me I throb with the soreness of it all. He is pulling me up, down, up, down and again and again, deeper and deeper and I whimper.

"Yeah." He is panting, his hot breath heavy on the hairs of my neck. "There we go,"-pant-"You're a slut,"-pant-"ain't cha?"-pant- "A dog"-pant-"a proper gutter hoe". He speeds up, slamming me around. Somehow it is thrilling, but horrible all at once. I can feel nails scoring gouges in my skin, drawing blood. I don't know how long he's been at it for. My hair is sticking to the sweat that clings on my cheeks, bits of brick dust litter my face.

And then I know it's over as I feel him come hard within me, spilling out as his head lolls onto my shoulder blades. We both stand in silence for a minute, before he kisses my ear, tugs at my lobe with his teeth, and pulls out of me.

I turn round, flustered. I'm not thinking straight. He bends down to yank up his trousers and, my dress still high around my hips, rests the base of his finger on my clit. The whites of his eyes leap out of the dark as he stares the way along my body, first up at my vag, then onto my breasts. He does up his trousers, stands up and yanks at the top of my dress, exposing my nipples to the night. It rests, listlessly gathered around my waist. I am completely exposed: Too shocked to even move. He leans into me, rubbing his hands over my chest and letting his thumbs circle my nipples.

Standing back, as if to admire me from afar, he declares "You're quite a catch love. Yeh, one 'ell of a catch" He retrieves his keys, glinting on the ground between my feet, and lets his hand run amidst my legs one last time, fingers astray. He rises. His hand grips my face and he lets his thumb smudge my lipstick, my own moistness smeared across my cheek. His face millimetres from mine.

And he walks off. Just as the corner is upon him, he turns. I am still motionless. "Thanks for the ride," he calls back and it echoes off the buildings, mocking me over and over. He chuckles darkly to himself and the sound swells onto me, almost suffocating in its scorn.

I just stand like that for a while; just staring into the inky blackness, punctuated now and then by a street light or the steady flow of night time traffic in the distance. I see a couple walk past the end of the alley, holding hands and chattering away about the restaurant they'd just been to. A young girl walks along with her mother - both wrapped up against the cold - thrilled to be out this late, humming and dancing along the street. A cat stalks around the litter bins across from where I stand, still splayed out; still indecently exposed.

I stare up at the stars, feeling tiny. What a time for a lesson in perspective.

I've got to go. Nothing's keeping me here. I readjust my dress, covering myself. My gaze wanders to the ground as I pick up my broken shoe. Something rests between the rubbish a little way from my hand. I fumble and pick it up. It glinted in the light. It is some sort of ID card. I am about to throw it away when, with pure, unprecedented disbelief I realise the photo on it is that of my… fucker. I ease off my other shoe and try to tame my hair as I begin to walk the long trek back, barefoot.

After a mile or so, I am walking along the river. The ID card is still in my hand, gripped firmly within my fist, carving lines on my palm. I don't know why I've still got it. What for? But it is lighter here – there are streetlights and neon signs. I peer down at it, and I can see the name.

Lawrence T.O. Spencer

I glare at the card, my eyes almost boring holes in it.

And I toss it in the icy river.

Then I realise.

Lawrence… T.O… Titus Oates. Captain Lawrence Oates, known as Titus to the rest of the crew members. The remarkable man who, until recently, had taken residence in my mind.

Well fuck it if Irony isn't having a night on the town tonight.

Reviews always appreciated, amigos.