My feet hit the pavement rhythmically as I walk, the commotion and constant buzz of the city
drowning out the sound of my footsteps. It's past midnight, but it's Friday, so the streets haven't pulled the
blanket of silence across and gone to bed. The lemon light given off by the streetlights is starting to irritate my
eyes, and the din made by intoxicated party-goers is scratching the first sour signs of a headache in my head.
I shiver as a cutting wind slides past me and wish I had brought a jacket with me. The long strip of
granite that I'm walking along seems to stretch for eternity, and I long for the soft plush of my mattress and
the warm blankets waiting for me at my apartment . I haven't slept properly in weeks, and I'm looking
forward to being able to sleep past the rising of the sun for a change.
My coral pink dress is fluttering on the cool breeze and my hair is being blown over my face. I am
aware of all the stares I am getting from passers-by and I can't help but stare back. Tall, slim girls with thick
blonde hair like butter smirk at me as they flick past me on the narrow pavement. Girls tower over me in
elegance, glittering heels clacking on the concrete, mocking my timid footsteps. Eyelashes like black ropes
whip the air and lips drowning in tubs of lipgloss blind me with the streetlight reflected off them. The inky night
is not black enough to blot out the unnatural light which screeches harshly off sequins on dresses. Gaudy
hues burn a hole in my retina.
I take a deep breath and will myself to calm down, but all I recieve is a poisoning draft of heavy
perfume as another crowd marches past me. I tear my eyes away from the swarms of people passing me
and I catch sight of a magazine stand. I'm thinking I might go and buy one, just to flick through on my walk
home, to take my mind off it all. But there is a flesh matchstick with flawless, cinnamon skin on the cover of a
poster advertising a magazine which puts me off.
I glare at my feet as I set off tenaciously along the road again, but as obstinate as I am about not
looking up, the tinsel laughs shatter the weak determination in my mind and draw my eyes from the ground.
Nails protruding from hands like multi-coloured claws threaten me and eyes sharp as diamonds seem to
survey me like knives. Every confident footstep that passes me seems to quell me further and further into the
tar.
By the time my key crunches in the door of my apartment, I am almost flattened against the floor,
littered with glitter, mascara and lipstick. I jiggle the key in the lock - it always sticks - and finally enter my
apartment. A blast of crisp air hits me as I walk through the doorway. It's winter and the apartment can't have
been any cheaper. I have just flicked on the gas heater before the shrill voice of the phone screams and
splinters the silence.
Groaning, I saunter into the kitchen and pick up the phone. Again the place is plunged into quiet.
"Hey, it's Mark. The shots from last week just came through."
"Oh? How are they?"
"They're fantastic. You look gorgeous. We're gonna get a fortune for these ones, just you wait."
"Great."
"Yeah. How did the shoot go tonight?"
"Not bad."
"Good girl. Anyway, I'll see if I can book another one for the same studio next week. The winter
fashion exclusives are out soon and I want to get you a place in a reputable magazine this season."
"Right. 'Night then."
I hang up and the phone clicks back onto the cradle emptily. Silence once again wraps its cloak
around me but makes me feel colder rather than warmer. I shiver and then march into the living room to see
if the heater has broken down again.
I place my hand on the metal bars but they are still stone-cold. The little red light which has
comforted me on countless nights is out. Then I notice the grey plug lying stagnant on the creamy carpet. The
goosebumps are rising on my bare arms but I don't plug it in.
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