Serene

Part 1

Just as her eyes were about to droop shut for the second time, a bright shaft of light pitched brightly through the gap in the oak wooden blinds. Half dressed from the night before, with museum leaflets, travel guides and shop receipts littered across the bed, she rolls over and grabs her thin framed glasses from the knee high table. Her joints continue to crack from last night's slumber like she has the body of an older woman. Sliding from the silk sheets, she stumbles to the sliding door hidden by an expensive rose embroidered curtain. Stepping out onto a gold painted balcony, the morning heat and the smell of burning pavements greet her petite frame. A small elderly man's dirt coloured dachshund comes bounding across the street and eagerly awaits the small slow steps of its owner. Smartly dressed with handkerchief flowing from his pocket and handwoven charcoal black loafers, he peers up at the hotel, seeking out the young woman's gaze. As if part of dream, his glum eyes meet hers. His small stature is framed by a dark blue vest and has a face steeped in mystery. His lips appear to tell the woman on the balcony something important.

Taking her by surprise, the man's facial expression turned to something of sincere worry and panic, as his lips communicate that someone is looking for her. Believing every word from the elderly's man's salty dry lips, she flings the curtains from in front of her, dancing as they return to their original position. She grabs a bundle of neatly folded clothes from the wardrobe and shoves them into a rose shaded leather backpack. As if defying gravity, she leaps across the bed and fetches her turquoise beret thrown tirelessly from the night before. Scanning the room for anything she has left behind, she notices a crop of leaflets folded into tiny pieces, which lay spread across the glass topped table next to the balcony door. Questioning the amount of time she has left, she darts to them and swipes them from the side. Voices can be heard talking to one of the maids from behind the door,
"Room 45? Where can we find it?"
Taking too long appears to have cost her-

"It's right there, hold on.."
The maid knocks sharply on the door.
"Hello, Miss? There are two gentlemen here to see you." she adds, with a heavy Italian accent.
Frozen on the spot, the woman argues with herself about her next move. She remembers seeing another balcony below hers that was, what seemed, a short drop down. She slings her backpack over her boney shoulders and clambers over the metal fencing, realising the extreme height that she is suspended from. Slowly reaching her toes down for the cold metal balcony of the floor below, loose change slips from her loose pockets, a swift reminder of the distance between her and the lava hot tarmac. Safely grounded, face slightly flushed from adrenaline and panic, she eyes a sharp exit through the room identical to hers leading from the balcony. A young Italian couple lay helplessly in love on the satin sheeted bed, listening to the hum of local Italians and excitable tourists echoing from the streets. As she darts through the room, the couple shout foreign obscenities, as she continues to find the quickest route out of the old interior of the hotel. Seeking out the lift, it is only when she presses the button that she realises that a bold sign translates poorly into 'Out of order, please use the stairs!'. As she turns, two large men dressed in identical black suits slowly and confidently stride towards her. Lacking in options, she notices a strong breeze flowing through a beautifully sculpted window, with two cupids etched into pillars either side. The men approach rapidly down the corridor, the woman's heart beats faster.

Just as the shorter of the two men was about to grab the woman, she leaps through the window. To the surprise of the angry men, she survives, landing in a skip filled with soft bin bags and the remnants of yesterday's leftovers. Stood nearby, the old man and his dachshund watch in disbelief, before scurrying around the street corner and into what looks like an Italian palace. The woman, now coated in strong smelling fish from the hotel buffet bin store, concentrates her gaze towards the fascinating exterior of the old man's resting ground. Wary of the disappearance of the men from the window above, she heaves herself up and towards the grand blue door that stands towering over the small features of the woman, knowing that the old man might offer her refuge. Her bony fingers caress the perfectly carved marble knocker that sits just above her icy cobalt eyes and knocks three times. The wondrous facade of outer architecture continued into each tile of flooring, as the towering door swings open and the woman is flung inside by the outstretched wrinkled hands of the helpful old man. Pondering her surroundings, the inner workings of a royal masterpiece unfolded. A golden throne sits central in a room with a chandelier bearing the lights of a thousand cities. In front of the throne, a tiger skin rug returns her stare, as if waiting to pounce on her every movement. Along every wall, thousands of books are perched gathering dust and as her awe inspired eyes are just about to return the man's mysterious gaze, she notices a large portrait lit by mounted torches. It was her, the woman, seated on the throne she saw moments before, wearing the exact same outfit.