Greasy, ebony soot smudges on a sunburnt face; wrinkled, grass-stained clothing and hair that goes way beyond bedhead; you could definately say I'm not ready for my closeup. I suppose I could rationalise away this Dickension apparition staring blankly back at me; brand it a distortion of the filthy, shattered glass G. has propped up against the abandoned warehouse wall to discourage other night wanderers from entering. I examine the image, so foreign and distrubing, its reflection is of a person that days ago I would surely glance away from, eyes downcast and feeling sad, wondering how I could help. Unfortunately, now that mysterious person is me.
A sigh and a borrowed cigarette later, I keep reality at bay with a handful of (yes, legal, thank you, I am not that kind of girl) prescription medication and a warm bottle of tap water, all the sustenance on the morning's menu; luckily the lingering perfume of the previous evening's rubbish-bin-fireplace turns my stomach anyway, so I've no urge for food. With no hope of an improvement in my appearance, and realising I really don't care, my next thoughts are of Boo and G., both already seriously worrying me, the stress of the situation showing in their manner if not their actions. Not that I am handling the situation well by any means, but I fear my self-assumed position as team cheerleader and crisis chairwoman is a shaky one; have I got it in me to get us through this? I truly do fear the answer to this question, and know that G. is thinking the same; and poor, precious, little Boo, she doesn't understand, and she seems so shaken. So, what if we can't get through? Where will we end up, and truthfully, does anyone really care about two americans and a beagle who lost everything, everything in both ehe US and the UK (families included)! while waiting for their visa in England?
