From the moment Monica opened her eyes, a searing agony was felt through her skull. Shocked, with her gaze fixed on the cracked plaster ceiling, the feel of it intensified by the dull pain beneath her eye balls. She tried to recall how she had arrived there but to no avail. She sat up, which invited a new wave of nausea that smashed over her as panic clutched her throat. The hotel room wasn't perfect, but it appeared to be extravagant from the crushed velvet chaise longue that was positioned at the corner of the room. On the plush carpet was a lamp which was overturned with its shade hanging by a thread. The floor was covered in garments that seemed abandoned and empty champagne flutes, all of which resembled the mess likely to be left after a wild celebration.
A panicked memory check yielded nothing, not even a sliver of familiarity. 'What had happened here? Where was she? Her breath got caught as her fingers brushed against a piece of paper that was tucked into her left coat pocket. With trembling hands, she unfolded it and read the plain message which scribbled across it in bold, black letters: "The clock is ticking: Tick Tock". She wondered: "What the hell happened yesterday?"
Without any sense of direction amid the vast expanse of her amnesia, her gaze darted around the room. She spotted her purse, which was still slung over the back of a chair thankfully, and inside it contained her ID card– Monica Kolawole, journalist, and her credit card, but no phone, which brought a fresh jolt of panic through her. She searched the bathroom frantically, in search of anything familiar, such as a bottle of prescriptions or a particular brand of shampoo, but the shelves only consisted of cleaning supplies which were all generic. A thick wooden door loomed across the room, which appeared to be the only way out. Where would she go though?
Deciding to confront the chaos head-on, she approached the lamp which was overturned. Its broken shade lay beside it, which revealed a half-empty bottle of champagne and two flutes. She felt a form of recognition after a piece of her memory was restored from last night, which was her friend's birthday party. "That explains the champagne" she thought. But why was she here, in this trashed hotel room, and where was her friend? She knelt down with more determined as she sifted through the scattered clothing with hopes to find a clue or anything which could spark another memory.
With a feeling of optimism, she tore through the abandoned clothes on the ground in search of her phone. She tossed a crumpled silk scarf aside which had caught on her wrist, in turn exposing a gleam of metal beneath a mountain of clothing. She reached for her phone with trembling fingers, feeling a surge of relief when the familiar screen came to life. Maybe, the solution to the enigma of the evening was just a phone call away—her friend.
At last she found her friend's name after scrolling through her contact list, her heart beating rapidly against her ribs. She dialed her number twice but it went straight to voicemail. In disappointment she left a frantic message, pleading for her friend to pick up.
"Hey, Susan, it's Monica. Pick up, please! I woke up this morning only to find myself in a trashed hotel room with no memory from last night. Abeg call me back".
She slammed the phone down on the armchair, the silence pressing down on her. She inhaled deeply and pushed herself in the direction of the massive wood door. It opened with a groan and revealed a dimly lit hallway. She stepped out looking around cautiously. The disorder of the room she had just left stood in stark contrast to the calm of the hallway. Firmly securing her purse, she decided to proceed to the reception with the hopes of regaining some degree of organization from the ruins of her past.
She started walking with a deep breath, her eyes looking around the corridor for any indications of life. The faint echo of her footsteps on the plush carpeting was the only sound on the plush carpeting. She needed answers and the receptionist was her only hope. Hopefully, the receptionist could shed some light on how she ended up in this trashed hotel room.
Her steps echoed in oppressive silence as the hallway stretched out before her. As she approached the desk of the receptionist, her anxiety was already at its peak. "Good morning," the receptionist, who was a uniformed woman with a weary smile said with practiced cheer. "How may I help you?" Monica cracked her throat before she spoke as her voice felt rough. "I, uh, I woke up in one of your rooms and I can't seem to remember how I got there or who brought me in, can you tell me who brought me in?"
The receptionist's smile faltered briefly as a flicker of surprise crossed her features. She recovered quickly though, her gaze flitting to the room number on the keycard Monica clutched in her hand. "Room 407?" she inquired, her voice carefully neutral. "Would you please give me a minute, let me check our system."
The receptionist tapped rhythmically on the keyboard, with her eyes going through the information on the monitor with an inscrutable expression. Monica's weight shifted from one foot to the other, her impatience evident on her face. After what felt like forever, the receptionist sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Based on our records madam, the room was registered to Mr. William Henshaw. You both arrived last night and went upstairs together".
A jolt of surprise shot through her. "William Henshaw?" she echoed, the name sparking no recognition whatsoever. "Why was I there? And who is he?" "I'm afraid I can't provide any guest information, ma'am," a hint of something unreadable flickered across her eyes. "That would be a breach of privacy. However, I can check you out if you'd like."
Frustration prickled at Monica's skin. "Wait a second," she said, forcing her voice to remain calm, "clearly there's been a misunderstanding of some sort. I woke up this morning in that room and I have no idea how I got there. Please, the very least you can do is tell me who this man is." The receptionist paused, her gaze flickering away from Monica's. "Our security footage might be helpful ma," she offered. "But you'll have to speak with the manager about that."
"The manager, you say? Where can I find the manager?" Monica asked, with a spark of hope in her eyes. The receptionist's lips curved into a tight smile. "Let me just direct you to his office." She gestured down the hallway, pointing towards a discreet door marked 'Manager' in bold lettering. Monica thanked her curtly, her trepidation momentarily eclipsed by a surge of determination. The manager might hold the key to untangling the mystery of the night before, and she wouldn't rest until she got some answers. She squared her shoulders and headed toward the manager's office, holding her borrowed phone firmly. The unstated question of who William Thompson was and what his connection to her forgetfulness was resonating with every stride she took.
She was directed to the manager's office, which had an oak door that loomed before her like a barrier. She knocked on the door, the sound echoing sharply in the hallway. A gruff voice granted her entry. She stepped into a dimly lit office which was cluttered with files. He was a man with a receding hairline and a stern expression on his face. "Yes?" he inquired, suspicion laced in his voice.
Monica began, her voice steady, which was surprising. "Excuse me," "My name is Monica Kolawole, and I was a guest in room 407. I woke up this morning with no memory of how I got there, I spoke to the receptionist and she mentioned a security footage I could look through."
His eyebrows looked up in surprise, a flicker of something similar to recognition crossing his features for briefl. He quickly changed his expression back into one of indifference. "Is that so?" he replied, his tone clipped. "Well, madam, I'm sure she told you that the room was registered to Mr. William Henshaw."
"Yes she did," she answered, hoping to jog his memory, "but who is he? The manager pursed his lips, his gaze flickering away from her for a beat. "Security footage might be helpful for your situation," he finally offered, his voice carefully neutral. "You'll however have to file a request formally in order to review it, it could take some time, and retrieving it is not a complete guarantee".
"Time?" she echoed, her voice tight with panic. "I can't wait days, maybe even weeks, for some footage. There was a man in that room with me, I woke up with no memory in a trashed room. This isn't a joke, this is serious!" Her voice was already trembling slightly, but she held his gaze, with a plea for understanding in her eyes. He sighed, the sternness of his lips softening by a fraction. "Look, madam, I understand your concern," he said finally. "But we have procedures to follow. However," he continued, leaning forward slightly, "given the circumstances, I can make an exception. But I can't guarantee the footage will be available." A flicker of hope ignited in Monica's chest. "Thank you," she said sincerely with relief washing over her face. "I really appreciate. Please, anything you can find might be helpful."
The manager nodded and handed her a form to fill before leaving the room to get the footage. She settled down to fill out the request form, waiting for any shred of information that would bring clarity to the night before as her hand hovered over the pen.
Each minute stretched into an eternity since when the manager disappeared into a back room. The tension in the office was thick, punctuated by the scratch of her pen against the paper. He finally emerged, but his face had a grim expression.
"I'm afraid I don't have good news for you," he began. "I checked the security footage but the entire footage is unavailable, It seems to be a malfunction with the recording system."
She felt the room shrink before her eyes as she slumped back in her chair, defeated. The security footage, which was her only hope was gone. She stared with a blank expression at the request form in her hand. His words echoing in the hollow space of her mind: "Unfortunately there's nothing else I can do, my hands are tied." And so was she, as her path forward was shrouded in a fog of uncertainty.