I don't know if I can think of anything worse after a night of drinking than waking up next to someone and not being able to remember their name,
or how you met
or why they're dead.
I wake up to birdsong, early morning sunlight peeks through the curtains. My head is pounding. My mouth feels like sandpaper. I roll over groggily to my side.
I freeze in terror.
A man is lying next to me, his bulging grey eyes are wide open. There's a dead man lying next to me.
I want to scream but I can't. The sheets are drenched in blood, along with my night gown. Blood drips from the bed on to the wooden floor. There's a trail of blood coming from beneath the kitchen door. I wince at the unbearable stench.
I have never seen this man before in my life; his ash blonde hair is limp and scraggly making for an unkempt appearance. I don't seem to have the vaguest recollection of the night before. Who did this? And why am I here?
I notice that he is holding a camera. I gently remove it from his clench, I shiver as his stone cold finger tips brush against mine.
I frantically skim through the photos trying to find any indication of who he is. They are mostly headshots of different people; I'm presuming he is – was- a paid photographer. Suddenly, I reach the end. The last thing ever taken on the camera was a video. A video of me.
My fingers quiver as I fumble to press the play button.
We're in his kitchen and the radio is playing. I'm dancing to the music, having a good time. My high pitched laughter pierces my ears. He puts the camera down and joins me. He brings me closer to him, I don't like where this is going. Something falls over in front of the camera, distorting the video. I hear myself shriek. Suddenly, the camera clears- I have my back towards the camera, his hands are grasped around my throat, I'm gagging and spluttering for air. There's a knife on the kitchen table. I struggle to reach it. I succeed and I thrust it into him. The man groans and stumbles to the floor.
I let go of the camera. It smashes into a cascade of shards of glass.
It was me.
I did this.
"Mr Remoray?" A woman is knocking at the door. "It's me."
My heart plunges. I don't think I've ever felt more nauseous. I need to get out of here. No one can find out about this.
"Mr Remoray, are you in there?" The knocking becomes louder.
I sprint to the window, I break through the glass. Thank god his appartment was only first floor I think as I collide into the pavement. The gashes and the pieces of glass etched into my skin are excruciating but there's no time to think about that now.
I hear thuds as the woman tries to force open the door behind me.
I run.
The woman screams.
And I run.
Police sirens wailing in the distance.
I don't stop running.
But I just wasn't fast enough.