Benedict Cumberbatch - Flat Of Angles - Part 2

Is there any more drink around here, like? Do you have any? Its alright, I haven’t been to bed yet – I’m not drinking in the morning! I swear I had a couple of… no I think I had them before I headed out last night. Anyway, like I say, it was great – I was waiting in the corridor, to go to the toilet, standing right in front of the door. It opened, and this girl was standing there. I was a little shocked, hadn’t expected it, and jumped a little. She did the same thing a second later, smiling. I smiled. I tilted my head left, about to speak, and look sympathetic, and she tilted her head right. I raised my right hand, she raised her left. I put it back by my side, straightened my head, and she did the same. “I’ll be your mirror.” she said. Nothing else existed for a second there, I felt calm, and wanted no more. Then some chump who had slunk up the corridor goes “Awww, that is so cute!” I barged past her and slammed the door, shot the lock across, the handle fell off. One This can’t actually have happened. She is only 28. Only. What are we doing with our lives? Why are we carrying on like this? For fuck’s sake, why don’t we grow up? Pretending we are hip, throwing our bodies around the room, around the town, projected on cheap MDMA and ciders with ice, our shadows are long. They slip over the horizon, grow thinner, and disappear as only the all-encompassing shadow of night takes over. That is greater than any of us. Then morning comes, and it goes away. It peels the film from eyes, sparks cells into action, and eventually resurrects those who have avoided it. It says – here is a day – do with it as you will. I am back, but she… Two I’m well up for keeping the session going – why did I even come back here? Fuck knows. I’ll give her a call, see what she’s up to. We could swing down the Talbot for a few cures. Its ringing. Oh fuuu… What happened? I think that… Hey! Where did you get to last night? Fancy a Bloody Mary at The Talbot? Give us a call when you get this! Shit. She wouldn’t move. I think I lied next to her. I lied. We had that methlathyl-whatever when I got out of the toilet. She had given that bloke the heave-ho. I can’t even remember her face. Just the strange flock texture on the wallpaper behind her in the corridor, the magnolia paintwork, the sick yellow light from a bare bulb, and decades of greasy black hand marks by the top of the stairs. Her eyes were… black.