BPAL - Lurid
It's morning, he realizes, blinking sleepily. The bright sun shines through half open drapes, spilling across the room. Pushing himself sitting, he rubs his hands all over his face, feeling more than a day's stubble (didn't he shave yesterday?) then shakes his head of its cobwebs, which are insistent to stay right where they are. He doesn't remember much of last night.
He surveys the landscape of the bed with its rumpled sheets. The suite is an expensive one, catering to expensive tastes. The bed is enormous, the linens are a high-thread count, soft against his skin. Even though the remains of a serious bender currently decorate the dresser - empty bottles of vodka and enough horse to kill one, the room still smells fresh and clean.
He calls to room service, takes a moment to realize that they are speaking English to him. He orders up coffee and orange juice, hesitates while he contemplates the state of his stomach, then asks for some toast with currant jam.
"Will the lady be having anything?" they ask.
Lady? He's confused and looks around. Lipstick stains the bedsheets, a bra is draped over one of the back of a chair. "Oh, right. No, she's left." He doesn't remember a lady, doesn't have the faintest idea what they are talking about. He wants to get off the phone, brush his teeth, take a shower.
He waits for his breakfast to arrive, drinks the orange juice because it's good for him, the coffee for the caffeine. He chews the toast slowly, not tasting it, but enjoying the tart currants. He makes a quick check of the room for anything that might be an upper, turns up nothing stronger than the coffee he's already drinking.
When he steps into the bathroom, he parts the curtains on the shower absently while taking a leak. As he flushes, he looks into the tub to find a girl folded into a fetal position and clearly dead. He feels around in the jeans that are crumpled on the floor, finds a pack of cigarettes with only one left and a lighter. He sits down on the toilet, staring at her, unsure of how she got there, while he lights up, wondering how his PR people are going to handle this one.
He surveys the landscape of the bed with its rumpled sheets. The suite is an expensive one, catering to expensive tastes. The bed is enormous, the linens are a high-thread count, soft against his skin. Even though the remains of a serious bender currently decorate the dresser - empty bottles of vodka and enough horse to kill one, the room still smells fresh and clean.
He calls to room service, takes a moment to realize that they are speaking English to him. He orders up coffee and orange juice, hesitates while he contemplates the state of his stomach, then asks for some toast with currant jam.
"Will the lady be having anything?" they ask.
Lady? He's confused and looks around. Lipstick stains the bedsheets, a bra is draped over one of the back of a chair. "Oh, right. No, she's left." He doesn't remember a lady, doesn't have the faintest idea what they are talking about. He wants to get off the phone, brush his teeth, take a shower.
He waits for his breakfast to arrive, drinks the orange juice because it's good for him, the coffee for the caffeine. He chews the toast slowly, not tasting it, but enjoying the tart currants. He makes a quick check of the room for anything that might be an upper, turns up nothing stronger than the coffee he's already drinking.
When he steps into the bathroom, he parts the curtains on the shower absently while taking a leak. As he flushes, he looks into the tub to find a girl folded into a fetal position and clearly dead. He feels around in the jeans that are crumpled on the floor, finds a pack of cigarettes with only one left and a lighter. He sits down on the toilet, staring at her, unsure of how she got there, while he lights up, wondering how his PR people are going to handle this one.