Borrowing Fear

4. recollecting a friend

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Inside an elegant, spacious building, a wispy paper flutters to the ground, unnoticed by all who pass it. Without a pocket to settle in, it has no home, no place to turn back to. It remains a loner.

 A stray traveler.

Feet whisk on by, lifting it from its spot, stirring its movement with little tornados of air. As a victim of an invisible swelling tide, it rises and falls, coasting along the red-carpeted hallways of the hotel. Drifting aimlessly, it wanders towards the front desk. The warm walnut furniture halts its creeping movement. The thin paper flattens against the side of the reception desk's surface, unclaimed and isolated.

"...can't believe we had to go through that." A voice from the end of the hall catches the attention of the woman at the front desk. "...they say the attack has stopped, but no one knows where the information has gone. At this point-"

The lady comes into sight of the desk. She lifts her chin up from her phone and briefly digs through her designer bag. Within seconds, she extricates a credit card and a tube of lipstick. The credit card she hands to the worker behind the front desk, the lipstick, she quickly applies. The movement is so practiced and graceful that the worker behind the front desk wonders how often this woman multitasks while speaking on the phone. 

"Naomi Sakurai. Checking out." She smiles warmly at the receptionist, then continues with her phone call. The worker processes the credit card, undeniably intrigued. Most of the guests staying at that hotel are upper class business people or up-and-coming celebrities. This Naomi Sakurai feels vaguely familiar to her, but she can't put her finger on it.

She can't put her finger on who or what spurred this sudden feeling inside her. Before she can begin to grasp it, the woman retrieves her credit card and strides out the door. The hotel worker stares at the back of a glossy, black bob cut before it disappears behind a column of the hotel entrance. 

Almost like a figment of her imagination.

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"Hello, you have reached Tower Drive Law Offices. If you are here to file an incident, press one."

Jimin grips his cell phone demurely, letting it dangle on speaker phone about two inches from his chest. Sunlight filters over his hair and coats the remnant messy bed covers. 

"I'm not here to file an incident." Jimin snarls as the automated voice continues. "But I'm going to make a pretty nasty incident if you don't put me through to a real fucking person!"

The voice briefly silences, seeming to consider his words. In the accompanying hospital room, Jimin hears a vague would he just shut up already?

"If you would like to get in contact with one of our lawyers, press-"

"Please press seven." Jimin mocks. "But even when I press seven, you damn fuckers put me on hold for five minutes and lie to me that you're working hard to put me through to a real person! I know damn straight you aren't. You lawyers are sitting back and having your lunch break of egg brûlée served on toasted honey wheat, topped with caviar shavings. I mean, come on."

A knock sounds at the hospital door, quick and wispy. Jimin sits up straight on the bed, studying the door frame. He recognizes those knocks instantly.