Copyright © 2007 by Elena Murphy
All rights reserved.

There are moments in life that are recognisably profound. Events that you can point to and say—there, that is when things changed. The birth of a child. The death of a parent.

There are moments that seem terribly important at the time, things that you think will transform your life which, really, have very little impact in the end. Your first car. Your first date.

Then there are times when you look in astonishment at the wreck of your marriage, your career, your life, and you have absolutely no idea what moment was the turning point. You excavate your mind like Schliemann at Troy, dusting off shards of memory, desperately trying to bring to light the action, the word, the thought. That pivotal moment that started it all; anything that can explain the chaos around you.

That you find nothing is distressing. Perhaps there is nothing to be found. Maybe it was a slow, inexorable slide to where you are. Maybe it was inevitable.

What if this is what Fate had in mind for you all along?

Perhaps it was Destiny that left you here, bound wrist and ankle to a hotel bed.

. . . .

I think it was the screaming that woke me. It wasn’t unusual for me to wake up that way. For the past thirteen months it’s been pretty normal. I was halfway out of the bed before I realised that it wasn’t my son who was screaming; in fact, I wasn’t halfway out of bed at all, but restrained by cords that cut deeply into my arms and legs.

I look over at the noisy woman. Pretty thing, dressed in a maid’s uniform—an actual maid from the hotel, not some player in a kinky dress-up game. Of course, given the fact that I’m lying spread-eagled and naked while tied to a bed, I am perhaps not the ideal person to be commenting on kinky game-playing.

I closed my eyes. Shit. I’m stiff and I’m embarrassed and I really, really have to pee. And, while I never really appreciated the concealing properties of a strategically placed, if sadly stained, napkin, I feel the need for proper clothing. It’s not that I’m not grateful, you understand; it’s just that there are adhesion issues developing.

Okay Tommy, open your eyes, lay on the charm and get that poor woman to stop screaming long enough to untie you.

Oh, seems her shrieking has attracted some attention. Let’s see; three housekeepers, a security guard, and, lovely, an elderly couple with a camcorder. I don’t think I’m charming enough to pull this off; I don’t think that Cary Grant, on his most charming day ever, accompanied by the staff and students of an exclusive Swiss finishing school, would be charming enough to pull this off. The thought of Cary Grant tied to a bed while surrounded by schoolgirls makes me snort. My audience backs up a step. I notch up my smile a couple of watts and summon my dignity.

“Hi.” Nothing. “I’m Tom.” I’d introduce you to my dignity, but it’s not taking my calls. Hey, my bladder sure does seem eager to make your acquaintance. “I really need to use the bathroom. Could somebody please untie me?”

Well, this isn’t going well at all.