Thread: The Faceless Girl

The radio alarm rattles into life; a tinny, jagged edged song hisses out. 6.15 a.m. in blinking red digits. Monday, depressing Monday again, another shaky bloodshot eyed start in the office. I shouldn’t have gone out last night, but feel relief at waking in my own bed, in one piece. I struggle out from the cocoon beneath my eiderdown duvet, wincing; my wired bra digging into the top of my ribs, my neck hurting worse than my head; overenthusiastic head-banging in the mosh-pit, mouth vacuum sealed with dehydration, and everything stinking of the stale, chemical smoke of cigarettes. Fuzzy rimmed flashbacks force my encrusted eyes fully open:
‘Wan another drink?’ the man in the blue tee-shirt at the bar motioned to a girl hunched over, on the edge of her high stool. She covered her mouth and shook her head.
‘I think she’s had enough by the look a her.’ I said, as she contorted and heaved behind her hand; a vain attempt to hold in every optic measure, of now, projectile mulch. Everyone backed away with exclamations of disgust.
‘I’ll take her home sure.’ The man in the blue tee-shirt made a move to hoist her up off the stool.
‘Why’d you get her so pissed?’ I slurred. His face was forgettable, apart from his sparsely-bristled spotty chin. He smiled with a wink. Even now I imagine I can feel his dentist shuddering, but then again he probably didn’t have one. With all the Goldschlager and cigarettes, his teeth were like an abandoned graveyard; full of broken, moss covered tombstones.
I feel the gag reflex tightening my throat. I have to get to the bathroom.
‘Right!’ the bouncer boomed, ‘get this one outta here.’ And off they stumbled through the glowing light of last orders, the faceless, bedraggled spew monkey, manhandled out by her toothless wonder. How romantic, I thought. Witty old me, not so witty now with a dull pulsing headache, the remnants of alcohol in my blood burning through my face, and nothing else to show for thirty odd pounds; except a wealth of blurred conversations in the memory bank. But at least I wasn’t as far gone as that girl. I step out of the steaming shower feeling a little better.
The comforting smell of coffee and toast replaces the ugly squalid stench from when I first awakened, and my mind fills with my mother’s soft, mellow intonations; half remembered conversations. I wish I was back at home again. I savour the soggy buttered toast; salty-oiled dough on my tongue, it sticks to my teeth and the roof of my mouth. So thirsty; I wash it down with the bittersweet, milky coffee.
‘… has been found with severe head injuries.’ I click the radio off; news in the morning always depresses me. Opening the front door, I am illuminated by artificial light, like a fridge; the slight chill in the autumn air glances against my cheek.
As I walk along Bedford Street towards the Ulster Hall, with its black cast iron porch and name in dull gold, I notice the little baskets of hanging flowers. Babylon; I wonder. Going beneath the porch and up past the filth splattered pavements, I think; maybe not. The throttled squaw and hacking chuckle of squabbling seagulls, jiving in a low slung dance, dodge the passing traffic; lured into bravery by the sight of breakfast, discarded on the footpaths and roads; someone’s chips, probably mine from last night. Last night; it hasn’t quite departed, even though it’s now 7.30 in the morning. A funereal veil of mist shrouds the bruised sky.
The pasty faced preoccupancy and stifled yawns of passersby are missing from my blue hour commute. A flashing light suddenly comes into view; it’s the police, they’ve cordoned off an alleyway, opposite the cinema, and a swell of people, mesmerised by the flashing light, have converged. The policeman tells them to move along.
‘They got her in there, the poor soul.’ An old woman beside me tugs my sleeve and points to the alleyway. ‘The auld brute tore her clothes from her … he caved her head in wey a brick.’
I don’t feel like milling about, cold and hung-over, so I do as the policeman says, and move along. My thoughts turn back to my mother, how she would worry about me; the tearaway; late nights, coming home the worse for wear, and I feel a gut twitching pang of guilt; I haven’t phoned in over a month.

Very cool. Foreshadowing is fun: "has been found with severe head injuries...his teeth were like an abandoned graveyard; full of broken, moss covered tombstones...funereal veil of mist shrouds the bruised sky". Definitely an enjoyable read. Don't we all leave our mothers and stumble towards death.

excellent analogy!

The moss-covered tombstones line is awesome; it's a horrifying image of a person's mouth, and a great analogy There's some really nice writing, here; I like the idea of a stench being squalid, among others.

There's a real sense of 'it could have been me' which is great. Very enjoyable, and while it doesn't seem to be part of a larger piece of fiction, I'm sure it could be tweaked into one.