So I lied.
But not intentionally! I had originally planned on updating today, but the lab was SWAMPED and I spent most of my shift sorting through print jobs and not writing (which is what I usually do). So as an apology here's a snippet of part two of "The Empty Flat."
The days that changed John Watson’s life were often quite ordinary, at least at the beginning, so it came as no surprise that the day that his world once again stood on its head began with a hangover. He woke gradually with the suspicion that someone was tap dancing inside his skull. His blood roared through his veins, his head was pounding fit to burst, and his mouth felt like cotton wool. The insistent beeping of his alarm clock felt like a sonic attack and he fumbled for the ‘snooze’ button with a groan. Bloody hell, what did he do last night? He tried to force his struggling brain to turn back to the previous day’s events, but was left with disjointed shards of memory.
Colors and sounds and lips and teeth and it had to be a dream because Mari never kissed him like that. Hands and tongues and moans and sighs and ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
He managed to shut off his alarm and he half-rolled half-fell out of bed. Everything was too bright and too loud and he was never ever drinking whatever he had last night again. Of course, he’d have to ask Mari what it was, as he couldn’t possibly remember. His jeans were lying in a pile on the floor next to the foot of his bed and his shirt was crumpled over the chair that belonged to his desk. He managed to dress himself and even get a bit of breakfast before he trudged out the door.
The day seemed to drag on and on, but maybe that was the migraine he had brewing doing the talking. Well. Thinking. A vague unease settled in as closing time drew near: Mari hadn’t called. She always called him so they could meet for lunch, or not if she was swamped or he was, but his mobile had remained silent. There was nothing, no text, no message, no missed calls.
“Everything alright, John?” Melissa asked. She was a sweet girl in her second year of Uni, paying for her flat by answering the phones and scheduling appointments at the clinic. She was also, unfortunately, quite observant.
“Sure, great. Has Mari called?” he replied, trying to sound casual.
Melissa shook her head. “No, sorry. Were you expecting her?”
“Sort of, yeah.” He shook himself. “She must just be busy.”
He called her on the tube ride home six times. She didn’t answer once.
The days that changed John Watson’s life were often quite ordinary, at least at the beginning, so it came as no surprise that the day that his world once again stood on its head began with a hangover. He woke gradually with the suspicion that someone was tap dancing inside his skull. His blood roared through his veins, his head was pounding fit to burst, and his mouth felt like cotton wool. The insistent beeping of his alarm clock felt like a sonic attack and he fumbled for the ‘snooze’ button with a groan. Bloody hell, what did he do last night? He tried to force his struggling brain to turn back to the previous day’s events, but was left with disjointed shards of memory.
Colors and sounds and lips and teeth and it had to be a dream because Mari never kissed him like that. Hands and tongues and moans and sighs and ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
He managed to shut off his alarm and he half-rolled half-fell out of bed. Everything was too bright and too loud and he was never ever drinking whatever he had last night again. Of course, he’d have to ask Mari what it was, as he couldn’t possibly remember. His jeans were lying in a pile on the floor next to the foot of his bed and his shirt was crumpled over the chair that belonged to his desk. He managed to dress himself and even get a bit of breakfast before he trudged out the door.
The day seemed to drag on and on, but maybe that was the migraine he had brewing doing the talking. Well. Thinking. A vague unease settled in as closing time drew near: Mari hadn’t called. She always called him so they could meet for lunch, or not if she was swamped or he was, but his mobile had remained silent. There was nothing, no text, no message, no missed calls.
“Everything alright, John?” Melissa asked. She was a sweet girl in her second year of Uni, paying for her flat by answering the phones and scheduling appointments at the clinic. She was also, unfortunately, quite observant.
“Sure, great. Has Mari called?” he replied, trying to sound casual.
Melissa shook her head. “No, sorry. Were you expecting her?”
“Sort of, yeah.” He shook himself. “She must just be busy.”
He called her on the tube ride home six times. She didn’t answer once.