Dread.
I’m in the Hotel Chelsea, surrounded by bottles of whiskey and loose papers, strewn with notes about things I don’t want to think about. A hooker in the room next to me is being reminded by a less than grateful customer just what society thinks of her. I’m not even sure what day it is, what time it is, or why I’m there.
I have been having trouble getting to sleep lately. Just as my eyes are heavy and I should be drifting off, different images will pop in my head that wakes me right back up. Part of me wonders where that imagery came from, why it’s there. Part of me thinks I should just focus on the fact that I am the most sober I’ve been in more than 10 years, pretty successful and respected at work, an amazing girlfriend, and a bright future where I can actually pursue a dream. I’m not sure. I’m not sure that if I stare into the darkness, I won’t find some answers. I’m not sure that if I stare into the darkness, I won’t find oblivion.
I wonder how I got into that room in Chelsea. I wonder if that hooker knows that she isn’t less of a person than her customers. I wonder what was on those sheets of paper that drove me to drink all of that whiskey.
Write a detective novel. Just like this. Seriously.