If I Fell

~64~

European Vacation Tour.3

"Abigail wait" Paul yelled as I raced through the room. I hesitated for a moment then continued to flee the oppressing overcrowded suite.. for air.

Clean fresh night air was what I needed.

I made the hallway, George tripping over himself after I, impatiently, pushed the innocent boy, out of the way.

"Abby" Paul again called my name but I ignored his worried voice.

I need air.

Lots of air.

Lungfuls of air.

"Abigail!" George hollered but the pull of anywhere but here was much greater, the bellhop smiled then dropped the grin as he saw the wild look etched upon my face- obviously haunted, but also tense with anger and most of all, for all to see, a girl stunned by her own utter stupidity.

The dozens of fans seagull intensity of noise heightened as I neared. I rushed across the massive marble foyer towards the front doors. Even at this time of night they remained parked in row upon row of sexual frustration.

I heard a final call of 'Abigail' as the doorman allowed me to pass him by but when the girls saw Paul they made the once noisy seagull sound a roar of thousands, he stopped as I turned to face him; him inside by the elevators and me stood in front of dozens upon dozens of ravenous fangirls.

There was no way he could proceed, no way he could stop me leaving... so I did.

The Arc de Triomphe cast shadows. Its partially lit façade, amazing in the sunlight, hauntingly beautiful in the darkness. A casual walk to the sight usually twelve minutes, this time I made it there in five.

I was leaning heavily on the inner wall, hands planted on the cool smooth stone, a stitch in my side, all the while trying to recapture my breath.

A police car slowed, the two officers frowning then continuing by my distressed form, not a word uttered.

I realised finally, I was alone. Well and truly alone, just like I wanted. I am here the French capital, with dark deserted streets on all sides surrounding. No one to protect, or comfort me. In a foreign country, in the middle of the night, my shoes off and clutched in my hands, and no purse.

I turned to head back toward my only known haven- George V Hotel, presidential suites - both my sanctuary and now, my hell.

Champs-Elysées Avenue only offered darkened shopfronts and small ink black rues running off of it. A stranger dashed from one side of the road to the other but only raised an eyebrow at me as he slipped silently by.

Sullenly I began the journey back down the Avenue toward the hotel. I gazed numbly upon the fans as they milled. Some screaming, others crying, many chatting to their friends. They were prepared, and ate snacks or even slept on the dirty pavement with sleeping bags, blankets or even just a thick jacket.

My feet were sore from the cobblestones, I slowed to a halt and stood silently across the street from the grand entrance of the building.

Looking upwards I saw what the girls saw. Slivers of light, but not much else really.

That was where I had been, with him, on that balcony. So dumb, so slutty, so very stupid. I loved him and then he throws me away like dishwater. Couldn't he just say- tell me to my face, not shag some ..... some other woman, knowing full well I would be back in the suite so very soon.

I was right there.

Right.

There....

I took a step onto the roadway but that was as far as I got. I paused for heartbeats then altered my direction, the top of the Eiffel Tower beckoning. No longer did I feel soreness and aching in my legs, all I felt was sure that I was going to the right place for my mind, for my sanity.