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One
Jamie
My head begins to pound as consciousness creeps in, and my body is burning with heat. As I open one eye, I’m met with a mirrored ceiling, and that’s not all. Holy fucking shit! The reason for the heat becomes obvious as I stare at the mirror above me. I’m on my back, with one arm across my naked stomach, the other casually thrown above my head and appear to be the meat in a man-sandwich. One which I have no doubt was hot as hell last night when I was off my fucking head, but in the cold light of day, leaves me with the empty feeling I began the night with.
Fucking wonderful! I did it again. As I lie here thinking how on god’s earth I’m going to escape without disturbing these two fine pieces of arse and wondering where the fuck I actually am, a groan beside me has me holding my breath. The guy on the left of me, rolls over and his arm comes across my body, landing on my tit. The right one, and yeah, I’m pretty sure there’s a joke in there somewhere. But I’m not fucking laughing now.
Getting a good look at his face without the beer goggles on, he’s hot, and I can see why I’ve ended up where I am. Short brown hair, and if I remember correctly, matching brown eyes. My eyes scan the rest of his naked form and several images from last night flash through my mind.
My chest begins to tighten, and I realise I’m still holding my damn breath, so before I turn blue, I let it out as slowly and as quietly as possible. It proves to be harder than it sounds, and the air in my lungs leaves me in a whoosh that is anything but quiet.
Going back to the plan for my walk of shame, which considering how many there have been, you’d think I’d be a master at it by now, I use the mirrored ceiling to scan for my discarded clothes. I locate my bra hanging from a guitar standing in the corner and my dress is on the floor by the bed to my right. Thong? Fuck knows where that scrap of material is. And I vaguely remember taking my shoes off at the front door.
Bag? Where is my bag? Not finding it anywhere in the room, I hope it’s close to the front door.
The guy on my right has his back to me, snoring softly, and as gently as I can, I lift the other guy’s arm off me and begin to shimmy down the bed. Just as I reach halfway, a knee comes out of nowhere, smacking into my temple. The throbbing in my head intensifies, and I stifle a cry of pain as I raise my hands to protect myself.
When I finally make it to the end of the bed, I slip down to the floor, quietly blowing out a long, deep breath in relief. After a few seconds, I gather myself together and then creep round the room collecting my clothes.
Reaching the door, I grasp the handle, grimacing and praying it doesn’t creak as I pull it open. Once I’m safely outside the room, I tiptoe towards where I roughly remember the front door being.
Scanning the apartment and looking for my bag as I go, I take in my surroundings as more memories of last night flash through my head. Shaking them off, I spot my bag on a coffee table in the lounge area of the open plan apartment. Quickly throwing my bra and dress on, I head that way, snatching it up when I reach it. Then I speed walk to the door, grabbing my shoes on the way.
Just as I close the door behind me, my phone rings in my bag. It’s Cam’s ringtone and pulling it out, I flick it to silent and then hurry to the lift.
I feel bad ignoring her, but I just can’t speak to her right now. Can’t deal with another of her lectures or concern about what I’m doing to myself. I know she’s worried and she cares, but the problem is, I don’t. I don’t give a flying fuck about anything. All I want to do is to get shit-faced and lose myself in a warm body. I keep hoping if I do it enough, it will erase the memories and hands of another man. One I want to forget, but my mind and body won’t let me.
Well, that’s not strictly true, I do forget temporarily, but then it all rushes back in like a fucking tornado, tearing up everything in its path. Sebastian Roberts has fucking ruined me. One weekend. That’s all it took for a man I don’t even know, who did the most delicious things to my body, to turn me into some psycho bunny boiler that can’t get him out of her head.
The sound of a car horn blaring has me almost jumping out of my skin, and I realise I’ve made it all the way outside the building and have stopped in the middle of the road.
“Are you crazy, lady? Get outta the fucking road!” The guy, who is still blaring his fucking horn, shouts at me.
“How about, screw you, arsehole,” I snap, lifting my middle finger and watching as the guy’s eyes widen at the gesture. He doesn’t say another word, and I take my sweet arse time walking to the pavement.
I still have my phone clutched in my hand, and as I’m about to call for a taxi, it starts ringing again. This time it’s not Cam, it’s worse. My mum. I cancel the call and bring up the number for a taxi firm.
An hour later, I’m soaking in the tub when the house phone rings. The answer phone picks up, and my mum’s voice echoes through the speaker.
“Jamie, it’s mum. I know you’re angry, but we need to talk, please. Call me. I love you.” The machine beeps to indicate the end of the message. I slide down in the bath, submerging myself under the soapy water and holding my breath for as long as possible.
I shoot back up when my breath runs out, sloshing water over the edge of the bath to the floor below. I gasp for air, and it’s a direct comparison of my life lately. Drowning, suffocating, unable to fill my lungs with good clean air.
Nine months ago, I was attacked by a man called Russ as a warning to my best friend, Cam, and since then, I’ve been slowly spiralling. Add to that my weekend with Seb and the separation and looming divorce of my parent’s and my life is completely out of control. I have no idea how I’m supposed to get it back on track.
After my bath, I make a quick lunch from some leftover pasta and salad. My stomach protests, but I force it down. Then I crawl into bed and try to catch up on some sleep before my shift at the hospital later.
My job is the only thing keeping me above water lately, literally.
* * *
For a Saturday nightit’s been surprisingly quiet, but typically as soon as you think it or someone says it, all hell breaks loose. We’ve just been informed of a stabbing, and ETA is five minutes.
Just as I finish prepping the trauma bay, the double doors from the ambulance bay slam open and two paramedics wheel in the patient on a stretcher. As one of the paramedics gives a rundown of the patient’s stats and injuries, the patient starts thrashing about and shouting abuse.
Once the paramedic has finished his handover, the registrar takes over, and within minutes the room is a hive of activity as we begin treating another victim of the knife culture that exists today.
The patient is a young lad of twenty-five, and from the myriad of scars littering his body, including an old gunshot wound, this is not his first time. It makes me incredibly sad to see the devastating effects of crime. We have seen a huge increase in cases like this, and the victims seem to get younger and younger.
