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The Impossible Girl woke up sprawled on the sheet less king-size bed in an open bathrobe. The combined smell of blood, sex and vomit made her gag and cough. A spear of light shone through the thin space between the curtains and hit her in the face. She felt groggy, her throat was clogged and her lips were crusted. She got up and pulled the shades.
The unfriendly light revealed a pool of burgundy puke that had soaked into the bare mattress. In the mirror she could see where it had dried on her chin and congealed in patches on her robe. Around the room she counted six empty champagne bottles and two ice buckets. One of the buckets was on its side next to a patch of wet carpet.
A simple note sat on the bedside table. ‘Don’t be angry, our time will come. Yours M.’
The previous evening came flooding back to her. She held out her hand and shut her eyes as if to stop it.
What she really wanted was an exit out of all of this mess. She pictured herself sitting on the grass beside Rowan at the Blues Festival in Byron Bay, enjoying the music and the flow of the crowd. Anonymous, young, in love and everything simple and beautiful.
But that was fantasy, her reality was this room. Its stony silence made a nightmare of her hollow wishes. She opened her eyes and found her shadow falling across the ice bucket. This was probably what a mental breakdown felt like.
Her bag and clothes were in a pile on the bathroom floor. When she picked up her phone she felt a pain in the tendons of her wist. Rolling her forearm she found a black and blue weeping bite mark.
There were five messages from Roly. He’d lined up half a dozen interviews and an invitation for some bash tonight that according to his message ‘could not be missed’. As she sat on the toilet listening she felt another puncture bruise on her ass, and spotted yet another on her right breast. Ugh… She threw up blood onto the white tiles in front of her.
Mark and Belinda had disappeared and so had his luggage. The Impossible Girl doubted she would see them again this week. Mark was a pro at the quick exit, she thought bitterly.
She stood under the shower thinking how naïve she and Rowan had been. They had denied their condition for as long as they could, and when they couldn’t ignore its urges they had merely placated them. Why hadn’t they pushed for answers?
As she turned off the faucet it occurred to the Impossible Girl that there were no messages from Rowan. It felt ominous. Mark was connected to Belinda and Rowan thought she knew that… that she had known it all along. Could she blame him? How would she feel if the tables were turned?
Whatever the implications of last night she had to put it behind her and get on with the job, at least for the moment, at least for this week. The Impossible girl owed it to herself and she owed it to Roly. She would finish what she came to Tokyo to do.
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The unfriendly light revealed a pool of burgundy puke that had soaked into the bare mattress. In the mirror she could see where it had dried on her chin and congealed in patches on her robe. Around the room she counted six empty champagne bottles and two ice buckets. One of the buckets was on its side next to a patch of wet carpet.
A simple note sat on the bedside table. ‘Don’t be angry, our time will come. Yours M.’
The previous evening came flooding back to her. She held out her hand and shut her eyes as if to stop it.
What she really wanted was an exit out of all of this mess. She pictured herself sitting on the grass beside Rowan at the Blues Festival in Byron Bay, enjoying the music and the flow of the crowd. Anonymous, young, in love and everything simple and beautiful.
But that was fantasy, her reality was this room. Its stony silence made a nightmare of her hollow wishes. She opened her eyes and found her shadow falling across the ice bucket. This was probably what a mental breakdown felt like.
Her bag and clothes were in a pile on the bathroom floor. When she picked up her phone she felt a pain in the tendons of her wist. Rolling her forearm she found a black and blue weeping bite mark.
There were five messages from Roly. He’d lined up half a dozen interviews and an invitation for some bash tonight that according to his message ‘could not be missed’. As she sat on the toilet listening she felt another puncture bruise on her ass, and spotted yet another on her right breast. Ugh… She threw up blood onto the white tiles in front of her.
Mark and Belinda had disappeared and so had his luggage. The Impossible Girl doubted she would see them again this week. Mark was a pro at the quick exit, she thought bitterly.
She stood under the shower thinking how naïve she and Rowan had been. They had denied their condition for as long as they could, and when they couldn’t ignore its urges they had merely placated them. Why hadn’t they pushed for answers?
As she turned off the faucet it occurred to the Impossible Girl that there were no messages from Rowan. It felt ominous. Mark was connected to Belinda and Rowan thought she knew that… that she had known it all along. Could she blame him? How would she feel if the tables were turned?
Whatever the implications of last night she had to put it behind her and get on with the job, at least for the moment, at least for this week. The Impossible girl owed it to herself and she owed it to Roly. She would finish what she came to Tokyo to do.
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