Not Alone

Part One - Friday

8:27 AM - September 23, 2016

Did the alarm go off?

Carrie thought this, swinging her arm wildly above her head to the nightstand, while still keeping her eyes slightly shut in hopes that her internal clock was mistaken. Her first attempt knocked something, which clattered to the floor. She continued to feel around the nightstand, while mentally trying to connect the sound the object made with possible items that lived on the nightstand. Picture frame? Too heavy. Sue Grafton novel? Possible, but the clatter to the floor made her think it was something metal.

Eventually her hand knocked against the hard plastic surface of the alarm clock, which was shaped to look like a coffee mug. It had been a gift from her dad when she got accepted into grad school. As she had opened the small gift box and had seen the clock, he grinned widely and said something about joining the real world. His jokes, and gifts for that matter, had always an air of judgment. She didn't have anything against her father, not really, but he was a very practical man and had opinions about her life that she often preferred he would keep to himself. Now, at 32, a few years out of grad school and 'contributing to society' her father didn't poke at her quite as much, granted he wasn't very generous with his praise either.

8:27 AM. Shit.

The sheets flew off the bed and into the air as if by their own will. All flash and flourish. Carrie vaulted from the bed and into the bathroom adjacent to the heavy wooded chest of drawers that she had had since childhood. She stared at herself in the mirror. Tired was her first thought as she stared into her sleep-filled blue eyes. Her hair was a mess of black curls that now stuck out in directions that she wouldn't have thought possible. Her pale skin looked sallow to her this morning, but that could just be a result from the wine she had had when she got home from work last night. Probably shouldn't have had that last glass.

The Cranberries T-shirt she had slept in had small holes and tears from years of wear and love. Dolores O'Riordan's face was practically unrecognizable and her band mates, standing in their suits behind the suspender-clad vocalist, had all but been erased from existence.

Jesus, had she slept in her make-up? No, wait; those were just the circles of the overslept.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

On her feet now and focused, the morning began to move in fast-forward. Her thoughts racing, only snapshots of her actions registered in her mind.

Faucet on. Brush. Spit. Rinse. Skip shower? Phone rings. Washcloth. Grab towel. Wash face.

Wait. Phone rings?

Carrie dashed out of the bathroom, grabbing the phone from the bedside, and headed into the kitchen.

Grounds. Water. Coffee on.

"Hello?" Shit. It was Evan from the office.

"Hey, Evan. What? I know, I'm sorry. Traffic is awful."

Mug. Coffee. Sugar.

"Yep. Yep. But I'm in the car now and on the way."

Dog food in the bowl and...

Where is Wilson?

Wilson was Carrie's little English bulldog. He was so named because his old owner had decided that he looked like the volleyball in that Tom Hanks movie were he gets stuck on an island. She had inherited Wilson from the elderly lady, Barbara, who used to live above her before she passed away. When Carrie had first moved into the building Barbara had been the building's manager and the two had become friends, or perhaps friendly was a better word for it since they only ever really saw each other in passing. In particular Barbara had loved Carrie's ex, Steven, who used to work in construction and therefore became Barbara's go-to handyman when it came to fixing cracks and unplugging toilets. Steven was happy to help anyone, well, anyone who wasn't Carrie.