Who: Elise. What: A short narrative. Where: Moscow. When: Almost two years ago. Warnings: Suicide hospital stay?
It was her agent that was standing over her bedside when Elise woke up, cramming IV-laden knuckles against one rheumy eye. It'd been quite some time since she'd been in a hospital, it was like waking up on a new planet. Which she might have actually been on, seeing as how all memory of the last forty-eight hours was lacking. Somehow, it felt surprising to be alive. Not disappointing, but like a strange and depressing triumph. Oh well, maybe it was meant to be. She vaguely remembered the vodka, the pills, the record spinning round and round...
"You must really be getting sloppy in your old age, Elise. This is some typical acting the fuck out, cry for attention bullshit. I could have expected this when you were seventeen and I found you taking snapshots of junkies down by the bay, but come on!" The agent at the foot of her bed snarled before lighting a cigarette, and Elise was a little too glazed to even try to explain that she didn't think smoking was allowed in hospitals. "I've got you in talks with fucking VOGUE tomorrow. Get dressed, get your shit together, I'll meet you in the parking lot."
Still groggy, Elise frowned while glancing around the room, "Dressed?"
Exasperated, her agent turned on her with some neon glow disbelief. "Did you hear me? Vogue. Tomorrow. Milan." Moving for the window, the agent unlatched it and pushed it open. "Fuck the clothes. Rip out that IV, climb out the window, our plane leaves in an hour.." Elise starred as the agent huffed breathlessly, pacing with smoke trails around the room before he crossed over to drop his cigarette into an empty bedpan on the other side of the room. Then, without even looking at her again, he made his way out of the room. Murmuring to himself, "I don't know what I ever did to deserve this."