The dream had yanked Fin Calloway out of sleep. She rolled out of bed. The first thing she noticed was the gash on her leg. It was swollen and sore. Strange. She hadn’t felt the pain until now. On her way to the bathroom she tripped on a pile of wet clothing, noticed the muddy footprints on the carpet. She had no memory of when or how she’d got home last night. This was happening to her a lot lately, gaps in her life she couldn’t explain.
In the bathroom she clung to the sink with one hand, leant over and spat the bile from her mouth, splashed cold water on her face. She should shower, but she needed coffee first. She looked in the mirror, studied her face. Who are you Fin Calloway? She knew it wasn’t the weight she’d put on or even her face that was puffy from crying; there was something terribly wrong with her.
When had it started? And why? The heavy drinking, the blackouts, the depression. She’d been an embarrassment to Robbie. That was why he’d never introduced her to any of his friends. She’d only met one of Robbie’s friends in the past year or so — a woman called Jill Brennan. And that was only because Fin had turned up unannounced at Robbie’s apartment and Jill had been there.
Fin stumbled into the kitchen and looked out the window at the quiet street outside her apartment. Sydney was waking up to another wet and gloomy day. When she grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the kitchen counter she noticed, not for the first time, the health warning and photo of a cancerous lung on the pack. Instead of lighting up, she switched the kettle on, picked up a mug from the sink and waited for the water to boil. She closed her eyes. The darkness spread. She tried to piece together what she could remember of the dream… she’d been trying to get away from someone, or something.