Fascinate1

Bridget stumbled through the hallway of her New York City apartment block, searching around in her small black handbag for her keys. After trialing every one in her lock, she finally found the one she was looking for, and let herself into her unit.

For $125 a week, it wasn't much, but hey, neither were the neighbours, neither was the unit, and neither were her surroundings. She pushed her feet through the filth that sat in a thick layer over her sea-green carpet, tripped over her ruby-red 4 seater lounge, and thudded around, bouncing off the walls in the dark, finally making her way to the moonlit paradise she knew only as her bedroom. She flopped onto the mattress that lay only two metres beyond the doorway, and stretched over to the other side of the room to turn on the tall, thin black lamp that stood beside her desk.

These three items, her camera and an old telephone were all the room held, and Bridget felt the only escape from the everyday bore which was herself was a small window on the far wall, which constantly provided some of the only light in the unit. Most nights, by the time Bridget got home, the moon hung just low enough to strike a bluey-green beam, shooting across the mattress to the doorway, reflecting off the carpet and picking up the dust particles in the air, making it look like fairy dust. It was this beam that made Bridget feel protected, watched over, and loved as she fell asleep.

The moon, however, tonight, was not very bright at all, only just bright enough to bring out the slightest greeny tinge in Bridget's straight, black hair, and the shimmering diamond effect inher plum-coloured lipstick, which she had neglected to take off. The fact that she was wearing it often implied that she had been, or was intending, to drink. This had already taken place, and Bridget was so intoxicated that it was a wonder she was home and alive, let alone without a fine from the police. Tonight, in Bridget's eyes, was one of the best nights ever.

As she lay on the mattress, in her tight, white-washed jeans and plain black tank top, looking up at the mouldy white ceiling, the cracked bulb in the old lightshade, and clutching loosely to an old knitted rug that she usually curled up in on colder nights, she tried to re-cap the evening's events. She rolled slowly onto her side, and stared blankly out the window at the stars. She was too tired to think, and tomorrow was going to be a better day for her memory.
Bridget's eyes closed over, and she fell asleep.

Morning bought on an absolutely kiler headache, and as Bridget wrapped around her a dressing-gown her mother had bought her in Indonesia, she looked out the window at the busy streets of New York. She rolled over the back of the lounge, walked slowly into the kitchen, and started to boil the jug. It wasn't long before she was taking two asprin and over-dosing on coffee, and with this, she climbed back over the lounge and opened the front door.

She stepped out into the hallway and took a deep breath. Not the safest thing to do, but still. In No. 12, Mrs Cowan, divorced, was making herself toast again, although Bridget felt that divorce only gave you a much more superior right to make yourself exotic breakfasts, that's one of the many reasons she had never been married herself. Lack of male, and lack of right to cook oneself an exotic breakfast. Mr Mandar downstairs was making his regular "Foreign Omlett" from whatever country he was from, and although he had been quite generous and invited Bridget around for breakfast on several occasions, she couldn't quite go that exotic whilst choosing her breakfast. She leaned down, and picked up the morning paper, along with her mail, from the doorstep.

As she came back up, she saw two small eyes peering at her through the mail slot of No. 19.
"Thats funny," she thought, "I didn't think anyone lived there anymore..."
She lifted her hand to wave, but the eyes just stared at her in awe. She looked closer, and realised they were the eyes of a child.