The Tell-Tale Coat
<p>Gloria moans as the realisation dawns on her — it’s her head. The Buzzing is her head. What, for all that is good and holy, did she get up to last night? Slowly creeping a shaking hand out from under the covers, Gloria feels for a glass of water, anything, to help subdue the pounding in her head. She bypasses an empty pack of Taytos and some stale crusts and finally locates a cold half-empty cup of tea. It’ll have to do, she thinks and knocks it back, trying to suppress a gag. She slowly opens her eyes to see a small fly buzzing overhead, circling the bare lightbulb, round, and round.</p>
<p>Her eyes wander to the mold on her ceiling. What day is it? Surely not a work day? She can’t be late again. She can’t face them all like this, she can’t face Martina. Martina. Even the thought of her gives her a lurch in her stomach. Martina with her terrifyingly blunt bob and her laugh. Her high, frilly laugh like a cricket or cicada, never-ending, always there. Her long pointed nails, always the colour of blood as though she might use them to draw blood from a vulnerable neck.</p>
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