The keys marked 107 rattled across the white hallway as Irene's stilettoes clapped the way to her hotel room. After being prepared for execution and marched into the low lighted warehouse she was sure she wouldn't ever feel exhaustion or the desperate need for a coffee; fat chance of that. She had lost all hope, said her last prayer and realised there was no use in believing in her escape, so she said goodbye to him. The only one who would be bothered in any way about her end, despite the fact he would choose to hide it.
Then that text alert sounded. She swore it was her imagination, but sure enough it was him. The only one who was bothered about her.
Then came the running, hiding, rescuing, paper work, debrief, flight, another debrief, and the hotel was being awkward. Not a single person even thought that after 48hrs of no sleep (who could sleep on their last day alive?) would be enough for her and that it was time she should relax and just recover?
The guard took his post outside the door and Irene just collapsed onto the double bed. She laid motionless for what seemed a thousand minutes staring at the ceiling and waiting for the sleep deprivation and trauma take its toll. Nothing happened. No tears, no anger, no emotion. Just a bed and a ceiling. She continued to wait - she continued to drift away…