Day 343 – Writing Exercise
“What city is this?” he wondered out loud, looking down from a strange balcony to an unfamiliar street.
…
That might not have been the first thought that went through my mind that morning, but it had finally confirmed that I might very well be losing my mind.
What started this…
I woke. It wasn’t any different to what had happened every morning for I believed was the last forty two years of my life.
This morning…
Not so much. It was a room, it had two doors, and four walls, a cabinet, a TV, a painting and a window covered by heavy curtains.
OK, it was not my bedroom.
But it could be a hotel room, and since I travelled a lot, probably a hotel room in another city where we had an office.
I had been travelling a lot in recent months.
It was dark-ish, perhaps day from the light seeping in through the gaps in the curtains.
There was an unfamiliar aroma, like the room was damp, or old, and certainly not the sort of place I usually stayed.
Then, suddenly there was a groan, and movement beside me.
I was not travelling with anyone, I do not go to bars and pick up women, I didn’t currently have a girlfriend, so who was that groaning.
I moved and felt a stabbing pain in my head. A hangover? Impossible. I through off the covers and moved sideways, then looked back.
A woman, dressed thankfully, stretched out facing the other way. I took a moment to discover I was in my forthcoming, which didn’t make sense.
Who was she?
Where did she come from?
Where the hell was I?
I went over to the window and opened the curtains, and the pain in my head was worse. Morning light in unadjusted eyeballs hurts.
I squinted and blinked several times until I could make out shapes. There was another door, out onto the balcony. I stepped out and shivered. It was freezing cold.
I looked down. And uan nfamiliar street, an unfamiliar city. I had no idea where I was.
“You do not have to jump, I am not that ugly,” a voice, female, accented, came from within the room.
I stepped back inside and closed the door, leaning against it. The woman was propped up on one hand, looking at me.
She was younger than she sounded, with unruly blonde hair, not her real colour, and an exquisite face and whimsical expressions.
I had never seen her before.
“Who are you?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I don’t even know where I am.”
“Bratislava.”
“Impossible. I don’t even remember leaving Chicago.”
It was the last thing I remembered. Telling my supervisor that I needed a break, and basically resigning when she refused, I packed my stuff in a box and left, handing my key card and employee ID in at the door.
So I’d finally quit.
That much I remember. I also remembered going home and having a few drinks, then going to bed.
“You arrived yesterday afternoon. You came to the bar where I waited tables. You related your miserable story, drank too much, I brought you here, you asked me to stay.”
Hard to believe anyone would trust an American.
“How do you know I’m not an axe murderer?”
She laughed. “You are not an axe murderer. You were kind and gentle, and let me finally get a good night’s sleep in a real bed.”
“You have no home?”
“I have a home with parents, grandparents, six brothers and sisters, with no room and less privacy. We are poor. I work hard, but not enough for a place of my own.
“So you stay with random men who turn up at your bar.”
She looked indignant. “I am not that sort of girl.”
“You are here with me, what sort of does that make you?”
“A friend without benefits.”
I shook my head. I was letting the details get in the way of the main issue. How did I finish up in Bratislava, if it was Bratislava, when the last place I’d remember was Chicago?
“Come.” She patted the bed. “You look stressed, and I can also give a massage.”
She sighed when I didn’t move.
“It is Sunday. I have a day off. You asked me to take you on a tour. We can sleep in a little. Get breakfast from room service. Come, relax.”
She lay back down and pulled the sheet up, then looked at me. I could feel the cold seeping in from the window, so I shut the curtains, shrouding the room in semi-darkness.
If she were going to rob me, she would have done something already, the same if she were going to kill me. She was here for some other reason, and I didn’t believe for a minute I had asked her back to my room, or she would have come.
I sat on the edge of the bed and tried desperately to remember anything about the last 24 hours. There was nothing. Just the altercation with the supervisor, leaving, and going home.
In Chicago. Not Bratislava.
I felt the bed move as she came over to sit next to me. She took my hand in hers.
“You are acting very strangely.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Robert from Chicago. Man of leisure. Now.”
OK. Now was the time to start worrying. My name wasn’t Robert. Best keep that to myself. All I could think of was that I hadn’t quit, I was on a new operation, and somewhere, somehow, I had lost my short-term memory.
And the woman next to me could be either an enemy or a contact.
But why had I told her my actual life story, or was it part of the legend?
“I’m confused, and someone like me, that’s impossible.”
“In my line of work, you get to realise everything is impossible. Except every now and then, a ray of sunshine appears in the middle of a blizzard. By the way, we’re expecting snow; more snow, and just when you think that the weather will change, more snow. Best we stay in.”
I turned to look at her. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am, but since you have trouble remembering, I am Irina, waitress extrordanaire, sometimes tour guide, sometimes bartender, not often with time off.”
“Who brought me here…”
“When I asked you where you were staying.”
“No comment from the reception clerk?”
“He is used to odd situations and people coming and going. It is a three-star hotel. Sometimes spies stay in such hotels. Personally, I have never met one. Are you a spy?”
What an odd question to ask. Was it a spy? No. Not exactly. I used to be a courier, delivering stuff for agents at dead drops, but an actual spy? No.
“It’s an interesting thought. A spy with no memory of why he’s here in a strange hotel in a city he does remember getting to, with…” I shook my head. I had no idea who or what she was.
“Me,” she finished the sentence. “Perhaps if you go back to sleep, when you wake up, everything will be clear.”
Maybe, maybe not.
“I’m just going outside to clear my head. If you’re still here when I come back, then I’ll know at least one part of this dream is real.”
She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.
“I’ve never been part of someone’s dream before.”
I’m not sure what I felt in that moment, but it wasn’t like anything I’d felt for a long time.
“Hold that thought.”
I stood and went over to the window and felt the cold. I hadn’t shut the door. I stepped out onto the balcony and looked out at the old architecture and the roadway below.
After a minute or two, a gust of wind stirred up the snow on the railing and made me shiver. From within the room, I heard the door slam shut, one of those doors designed not to stay open.
I went back inside, and she was gone.
No surprise there. If I had been with someone like me, someone who couldn’t remember who they were and where they were, I’d get out fast, too.
I stood in the middle of the room and tried to make sense of my surroundings. I’d given up trying to figure out how I got there. Was there anything to identify me as this Robert?
A suitcase was on the rack for suitcases, open, and items were scattered neatly. Clothes hanging in the closet. A backpack is on the desk, but not open. Wallet on bedside table, anda document folder.
I sat on the bed and opened the wallet. Money, a credit card in the name of Robert Daniels. Illinois driver’s licence in the same name. A wad of money in several currencies. A lot of US dollars.
Documents, a passport, looking authentic, not a hastily manufactured item that sometimes ended up in my possession, travel itinerary from Chicago to London to Vienna, then my own arrangements to Bratislava. No return, but open, and a card with a cell number, Luxury Experiences. No name.
I looked in the backpack and found a diary, no name, with a mixture of what looked like my writing and someone else’s. Dates matched the itinerary.
Strange dates. I remembered, now, that it had been the 5th when I left the office, the date of my sister’s birthday, and that I’d tried to call her, and the date on the itinerary for leaving Chicago was the 15th.
Ten whole days that had just disappeared.
As for today? “Await instructions. Keep your cell phone close. Tour the city near the hotel, but be ready to move quickly if necessary.”
What the …?
The curtains blew inward from another gust, the cold circulating in the room.
I shivered, but this time it was not the cold. My only memory at that time was having quit the service, and now it appeared I was at the start of a new mission.
After putting everything back where I found it, I went over to the window. I looked out and saw that light snow was falling.
I went to close the door, then, on impulse, decided to step out and see if it was really snowing. I was having trouble separating imagination from reality. Another gust was accompanied by the sound of the door, then …
“Robert…”
I heard her voice and moved slightly just as something smashed into the bricks just behind where I had been standing.
A split second later, it registered, and I dropped to the floor just as another crashing sound came from where I’d just been standing.
Bullets, two, then a third into the balcony.
A sniper.
On another building opposite, looking down. After the fourth bullet, it stopped.
“Don’t come out,” I yelled.
“What is….”
A bullet shattered the window above me.
“Call the police, and tell them to hurry.”
If she didn’t have the sense to run and never be seen again. I wasn’t sure, but somewhere in the back of my mind was a thought that I had just reached my use-by date.
…
© Charles Heath 2025
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 