Bedazzled

Her smile is flirtatious as she approaches me with swinging strides. Dazzling. It literally lights her a pathway through the near dark of the club. It irritates me.

What could she possibly want of me? And yet a brief look across my shoulder confirms that there is no one else around at whom her smile could possibly be directed. I am the only customer left sitting at the bar, and the bartender himself is preoccupied in a far corner of his working space where he is cramming in a cupboard for Heaven-knows-what.

Another couple of steps, and she conquers the forlorn barstool to my left; makes it hers. Then she looks up at me again, and her volume-mascara blink outshines even the illusion of diamond glitter in my glass so that there is no plausible alternative to meeting her stare.

Am I here all on my own? What is my name? And do I come here often?

My mind barely registers the questions she flings at me in their sugar-coated shells. Which part exactly of my confused brain is responsible for replying to each and every one, I cannot tell, but I feel my lips move around the oh-so-honest answers.

All I get in return is another peppermint smile and the distant jingle of ice in my otherwise empty glass as I turn it to and fro in between ridiculously agitated hands.

Can she buy me another drink? Would I like the same as before?

When no immediate protest comes from my mouth, she turns and commands the bartender to our side of the bar with a single snip of perfectly manicured fingers. The ordered drinks sit on top of the counter in the blink of an eye, and just as quickly do I find one of them in my hands.

While I am still wondering where my old glass has disappeared to, or when on earth that may have happened, she scrutinises me across the rim of her own drink, forefinger keeping the paper-rainbow umbrella in check to prevent it from poking in her china-doll face.

That face—I am fairly sure that I have seen it before. But where?

The very thought dissolves into nothing as a fingertip lazily dances along the back of my hand, all the way to my wrist.

Do I not like my drink? Did she order the wrong one for me?

Helplessly, I nod that no, it is all right. And as if to reassure her—and myself—I take a shaky sip. Her cornflowered eyes observe with undisguised interest; I am almost sure to read satisfaction, if not anticipation, in them.

My brain screams at me that this is wrong, so very wrong, but I cannot see any way out of this; am strangely contented to not see any way out.

Times stretches eternally as I finish my drink without ever setting down the glass. And all the while, she keeps watching me; drinks in the sight of my inhaling the jingling blend of sugary sweetness and bitter intoxication.

I have barely put the glass down onto the counter of the bar when lacquer-tipped fingers snake in to pick a piece of remaining ice from the abandoned tumbler. The frozen cube of water makes its way up to waiting lips, is being brushed across once, twice, only to be discarded again and fall back amidst its comrades to blend in with them as if nothing had happened. As if it had not been singled out; marked.

Marked. That is exactly how I feel. Marked by her stare; by her touch. Conquered like the stool she has draped herself upon like on a secret throne. And no matter how weird it all feels, there is nothing I can do but surrender and silently obey.

Obey even as she asks me, would I like to dance?

I feel alienated and yet oddly secure as she leads me over to the small dancefloor to bask in soft, rainbow twilight. Soft light rather than flickering stroboscope; soft music rather than bone-quaking techno beats—that is why I chose this club over others in the first place. That and the fact that it is never too crowded. I need my personal space.

Usually, that is. Right now I find myself happily giving up any inch of personal space I might viciously defend under normal circumstances. But normality appears to have retreated into a dark corner to watch me with mocking eyes as I sway to the lullaby tunes of a nameless, china-doll faced song; as her hands on my hips guide me through that song with soft command, and through another, and some more.

I am strangely disappointed when our dance is over and she leads me back towards the bar. However, any disappointment fast dissolves as she merely grabs my jacket in passing and steers us on in the direction of the back door of the club and out into the alluring darkness, quiet, and privacy of the night.

Once outside, I inhale deeply. But she does not intend to give me much time to clear my foggy lungs and brain. Already she leans in close to me, far too close! Before I can react—or am fully registering what is happening, for that matter—she marks me anew, this time by transferring her cherry smile to my very own mouth. What starts out as a hesitant, almost innocent brush of lips soon (and inexplicably) grows into something so much bigger, so much grander that it wipes out my vision, erases any sane thought from my mind, takes the air from my lungs. That very kiss draws me into sweet oblivion.

The next thing I know is that I wake up in my own flat, on my own couch, and I hear the door snap shut.

I have no idea of how I got here, no idea of what may have happened in between that kiss and the second I opened my eyes again, only a moment ago. Confusion has me paralysed, and by the time I finally jump up and over to the door to yank it open, I find the corridor to be just as empty as my mind. No footsteps to be heard, no elevator noise, no sign whatsoever of my previous company.

Still in a daze, I retreat into the middle of the living room, eyes scanning the comfort-padded cubicle for any clue. I am home, I am safe, but still. . . .

I’ve barely come to register the soft music in the background when I feel a familiar, unwelcome twitch in my arm, and immediately, my legs make for the kitchenette on their own account. Another twitch sizzles through me on my way there, and I wonder just how much time exactly has passed since I last took my medicine. Far too long in any case, to judge from the fast-increasing spasms.

Due to the dwindling cooperation of my limbs, it takes me a good while longer than usual to go through my sleepwalk routine of uncapping, measuring, counting, swallowing, and recapping. Once every drop, every fibre of life-saving miracle has made its way down my throat, I let myself slide to the ground, my back supported by the steady coolness of the fridge.

Stay awake! I admonish myself as I prepare to ride out the traitorous attack of my own nervous system until the medication will eventually kick in.

I find it hard to obey my own command to stay alert, and I wonder whether I should have called an ambulance, or at least my parents. Anyone. But the telephone lies in its cradle far across the burgundy-plush square of my carpet, and I do not feel up to crossing it anytime soon. Instead, I let my gaze wander all around the room, if only to keep my mind occupied; to keep it off the miserable state my body is in. Uncooperative. Beyond my control.

My eyes flicker across the eggshell sofa on which I woke, the small table beside it, all cluttered with magazines that have been tossed there carelessly, some left open at random pages. Opened and strewn across the surface of the table rather than neatly piled up and sorted by issues. My shoes, too, are not where they belong. They lie discarded underneath said table, along with my purse and keys! And the music, which refuses to be ignored any longer, is the worst kind of clichéd, heart-melting ballads that I ever heard. I do not even own any music like that! Or so I thought.

There are more oddities to be noted once I am back on my feet and in acceptable control of my limbs and senses again. What whirlwind went through my closet, leaving most of the clothes in a jumble of hangers and crumpled fabric on the floor? Who used my laptop computer, wire still plugged in although it has been switched off? And who stuffed the crumpled newspapers in the recycle bin?

My hands have long begun to shake with uneasiness as I fish for the printed sheets to smoothen them out and place them on top of their rightful pile in one of the lower kitchen cupboards. Taking a brief look at them does nothing to calm me down. There, on page number one of the last newspaper I just added to the pile, an all-too-familiar face stares back at me, framed in black. ‘Singer Dies Of Overdose,’ is one of the main headlines for the day, and the timid, sweet china-doll smile in the accompanying photograph appears to give the lie to that emotionless, accusatory statement.

So that is where I knew that face from! She is—was—that singer that all the world is bragging on about lately. Not that I ever bought any of her albums, or went to any of her concerts, for that matter.

I quickly scan the article to learn that she has been found dead in her hotel room. Apparently, she had been into drugs for a long time, had not shown up for a couple of shows, and two days before the body was found (or so forensics claim), she must once again have tread that fine, white line between life and death . . . and overbalanced.

But wait! Two days ago, or more even? How can I possibly have met her when she has been dead for days?

My eyes flit up to the top of the page. ‘October 23,’ the black letters up there in the corner state unmistakably.

No! I shake my head and take another look. The result stays the same.

But that is impossible! Unless I’m completely out of my mind, this newspaper is a whole four days ahead of time! If today is the day after that surreal encounter at the club, then today should be October 19. I cannot possibly have lost a whole four days, can I? Where are my memories of that time? And who was with me before I woke on the couch?

Panic wells up inside me, and I stumble into the bathroom. For a second, white-knuckled fingers hold on to the rim of the sink for support, then icy water soothingly runs across my hands, and I splash some up into my face. I remain like that for a moment, willing my pulse to slow down. When I finally move my head to look in the mirror, I hardly recognise the face I see, and my heartbeat speeds up once again to drum in my ears like distant thunder.

What may have been skilfully applied mascara and eyeliner now runs down my cheeks in rivulets of black ink, sliding across a smeary, creamy surface that is not my natural skin. And cherry lips form around a soundless gasp.

I do not wear make-up, ever. I do not even own a single lipstick. And yet, here I am—face plastered with the reluctantly dissolving illusion of perfection, and I have no clue how that may possibly have come to pass.

No, that was a lie. I think I may just have got a vague idea, if one that may sound crazy.

That stalking figure with her porcelain face, that kiss with which she seemed to suck my very soul from my body, no less than four days erased from my memory, my apartment in inexplicable chaos, and last but not least my body so desperately screaming for its medication—it all fits together to form a distorted picture which might have sprung from a science fiction movie of the worst kind.

Hastily, I grab a towel and wipe at the mess in my face until I look as much like myself as I think is possible without a proper procedure of make-up removal. I need to get out of here to get some fresh air. I need to think. I need to find out what I—what this body—has been doing in all those past days. I need to do something.

I am out of my apartment in a whirl, nearly forgetting to take my keys. On my way to the elevator, I only just avoid knocking over the girl who I believe lives a couple of doors down the corridor, in 437A. Nimble hands keep both of us from falling, and a quick, knotted string of nonsense tumbles across my lips by way of apology as I make to rush on.

It is not so much the words themselves that hold me back and make me turn to face her. Nor is it the pitch of her voice. It’s the melody of her speech, which is familiar to my ears.

What do I run from? I need not run from her, she wants me to know this. And she feels sorry for me; for my ‘situation.’

Those are her words. They caress my senses, but it’s different from anything I felt—was made to feel—back in that club. Her new voice is laced with sympathy rather than seduction. Also her kiss is different now. It is a mere peck on my cheek, probably marking me with a lip-shaped stain of autumn red, but nothing more.

When she turns to unlock the door to 437A, she whispers once more that she is sorry.

I am convinced that it is not meant as an apology for what has been done to me; for her temporarily taking over control; for her temporarily taking my life from my hands in the true sense of the word. All I hear in her voice is pity. And when she finally disappears through the half-opened door and into her freshly acquired life, I know she is convinced to leave me standing out here in the corridor to die.

THE END