It was New Year's Day... I think... for I had no recollection of the night before save for leaving the house in a dress not suited to the frigid temperatures and shoes designed for feet without the encumbrance of toes.
Now I'm in a bed in a strange house. Alone. My head feels glued to the pillow and pounds like a brass knocker on an oak door. I know there's something very wrong with this place but haven't yet been able to gather my thoughts together long enough to form coherency.
I'm still dressed so that's something. But hang on, not in what I went out in. Sequins have been replaced by silk and ribbons. Am I wearing boots?
At last I manage to disentangle my head from the fodder of what feels like a record-breaking hangover and I drag my body into a seated position. The walls slip in and out of focus. Plain white with a plastic sheen. There's a glass ceiling displaying grey skies. There's no furniture other than the bed which feels like a life raft that I'm desperately clinging to. What is this place? Some kind of trendy hotel? The sensation of wrong-ness only intensifies and nags at my senses until finally, I understand.
I'm in a room with no door...
Story and image by Lisa Wright. Image created using royalty free images from Unsplash.com and blended in PhotoShop.
