Photo by: Sara Kurfeß
*
[700 words]
He changes consciousness, something approximating waking up from something approximating sleeping.
He’s uncomfortable. Twisted up like a discarded skipping rope. He shouldn’t be, the room is expensive. He feels he’s not alone on the bed. This doesn’t startle him, the events untangle in his mind, a forty-something couple from Hong-Kong.
How did he meet them? One of the apps. So many accounts and log-ins. Personality segregated into different fragments on different platforms. Showing the side of himself that fits the niche of that site best.
This is his version of something approximating laying-low after his schitzo-poasting accounts were doxxed and he was outed as a minor continental prince. Shouldn’t have burnt the book. Everything was fine till he burnt that book on livestream. Unsavoury characters got involved after that.
The hotel curtains are so thick that they block out time. For a minute he enjoys something approximating relaxation as dehydration rattles around his skull. He would normally scroll and shit-poast in these moments, these awful moods drive the most engaging content. But he’s logged out of everything while the pile-on continues. One stupid poll and one damn book.
He sorts through the bottles looking for something to quench the thirst. There’s chilled spring-water in the minibar, sparkling, but it will do. He shuffles the packs of medications on the coffee table. Some Cailis, caffeine tablets, paracetamol, ibuprofen, some sort of enema. He downs as much of the painkillers as he thinks he is allowed, impossible to keep the fizzy water down without burping. His breath tastes of arse. A stray, thin, woman’s calf pokes out the duvet. A camera on a tripod stands in the corner of the room facing the bed.
He has something approximating a memory of a good time but it’s mostly blocked by cravings for food, coffee, still water. He needs them to leave so he can have the whole bed and sleep properly. But he won’t kick them out, he’s only an asshole online.
Cigarettes call the loudest, louder because he is a former, former smoker. The sirens’ song of re-addiction.
Cigarettes are in the back pocket of the jeans. One cigarette left, upside down, lucky cigarette, still alive, made it. He dresses in the mirror, he still looks approximately attractive after a few weeks of bingeing. The vague shadow of abs, chest and shoulder progress still there. He starved himself for a day before coming here because they were filming.
He peels back the curtain and recoils. Screeching, English, winter sun. He finds the woman’s sunglasses and puts them on.
In the corridor the carpet is plush and feels surprisingly soothing, each step is muffled, as if he is having only the most muted impact on the world, his presence barely felt. The lift is already rising before he presses the button. When the door opens, a vaguely middle-eastern looking man wearing a long wool coat with a high collar exits the lift, almost bumps into him. He looks anxious and preoccupied, but who isn’t?
Everything in the lobby is hard and reflective. He watches a group of people in suits, their future bright, serious and wholesome. But you can’t have everything – he imagines their social media accounts are normie cringe.
Outside there is shouting and chanting. It’s Saturday, the protesters signalling their virtue about the thing. The new communion. He smirks as he thinks of a spicy poast then feels sad he is offline. He vows to write it on the hotel stationery. Leave it in the lobby.
The lucky cigarette soon evaporates into the sky and he escorts himself back into the lobby. He takes a glass of water from a decanter that is filled with cucumber and mint, it’s surprisingly refreshing. He finds a pen and an envelope, begins writing, two-hundred-and-forty characters. An elevator bell chimes and he sees the vaguely middle eastern man walking across the lobby quickly. Somewhere under his hangover he feels something approximating anxiety.
In the room his lovers are still on the bed. When he takes off the sunglasses he realises they are no longer sleeping. There are holes in the duvet around and through their heads, the bed is soaked in blood.
Just one stupid poast.
END
Corporate Clarke's Fiction 