I usually find New Year’s Eve quite depressing. It’s such an anticlimactic night, for so many reasons. I think the expectation of a new beginning being possible always kind of bums me out. People make New Year’s resolutions – promises to better themselves, to stop doing bad things, or at least start doing good ones. But why does that have to start on 1stJanuary? Why not better yourself today?
I make no such promises on New Year’s Eve. Well, not usually. This year I haven’t made a resolution, but I have been telling myself over and over that 2021 was going to be better. It’s going to be my year. I’m going to make it my year. Ha!
I suppose that’s what last night was all about – starting as I mean to go on. I’ll be putting an immediate stop to it now, as fast as you can sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, which incidentally I hate too. I don’t know what it is about that song that brings me to tears.
I’ve pulled my long blonde hair into a bun on the top of my head, and I’ve retrieved my clothes from various locations in the bedroom.
Speaking of the bedroom – wow. I thought the bathroom was impressive but this room is something else.
It’s an old-fashioned room, but intentionally so, with lots of dark wood and retro patterns. But then it also has a modern streak, with plenty of gadgets, and a large TV mounted on the wall. Somehow the old and the new come together perfectly. The main star of the room though is the huge wooden fourposter bed at its heart. I didn’t notice it, when I slept in it last night, or when I was (presumably) awake in it last night.
I run my hands along the wood, admiring the shapes carved into it, and its silky-smooth finish, but as I get to the head of the bed I notice the scarves tied to each of the bedposts. Are they… are they for…?
Ah. Right, time to go.
I gather my things, slip on my heels and hurry into my coat before heading downstairs.
It’s a large, curved staircase that leads to a big, heavy front door.
‘I need to get going, see you later,’ I call out, about as casually as I can, but I’m freaked out.
Those were clearly restraints, on the bedposts, which is either a sex thing or something more sinister. I am so close to surviving 2020, so I really don’t want to get murdered, but I want it to be a sex thing even less. My idea of kinky is leaving the lights on.
‘Wait a second,’ I hear Rowan call from another room. I can hear a panic in his voice which only terrifies me further.
‘I can’t really hang around, I’ve got a party to get ready for tonight, as much as I’d love to stay for coffee,’ I lie.
‘I don’t think you’re going anywhere,’ Rowan says, standing in the doorway, holding a knife.
I do my best to ignore him and turn to the front door. I try to open it but it’s locked.
‘Can you let me out please?’ I ask politely, but I can’t quite hide how freaked out I am.
‘I can’t open that door,’ he replies.
I notice that Rowan is wearing an apron that says ‘prick with a fork’ on it – somehow this comedy apron only makes him seem more sinister.
‘Look, Rowan, I know you’re my boss,’ I start tactfully.
Well, the mistake people always make in horror movies is to freak out and scream and try to run away. I always wonder why more people don’t try and sweet-talk their way out of situations. My survival strategy is to pretend I’m cool with whatever is going on, and hope that makes it less appealing, but also gets me on-side. I really don’t want to be murdered today.
‘My name isn’t Rowan,’ he replies. ‘And I’m not your boss.’
Screw playing along.
‘OK, open this door, right now, or I’m calling the police,’ I say as I remove my phone from my pocket. I noticed it was flat when I was upstairs but he doesn’t know that.
‘I genuinely can’t open the door,’ he insists. ‘And… just… look out of the window.’
He says this in a way that sounds like it is designed to calm me down but it only serves to further freak me out.
‘Don’t move,’ I demand, still brandishing my phone, even though the only way it could help me right now would be if I threw it at him.
I pull back one of the curtains that hangs either side of the front door. My eyes are immediately drawn to the snow that is piled high against the glass. As I look above it, into the garden, and down the long driveway, I notice that I can’t really notice anything. All I can see I snow.
‘Are you telling me this door can’t open because of the snow?’ I reply. ‘Because doors open inwards. So, if you’ll just open it…’
‘I don’t have a key,’ he replies. ‘This isn’t exactly my house.’
