Lucy Talloway

Lucy Talloway sat in a kind of daze, staring at a small greasy patch on the ceiling of her bedroom. For a good four hours she had been speculating about the origin of the patch, thinking perhaps there was a decomposing rat trapped up there, in between the layers.
The thought was mildly grotesque, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was hard to avoid the spot, as it was right above her head when she lay back. The spot somehow seemed to mock her, like it was a spot on her mind, on her heart, a spot on her very soul.

Lucy decided it was time to find him. Oscar Dawson, who she knew intimately, though they had never met, never spoken or communicated in any way, except through his books. She read them realizing somehow he had an insight into how things really were, the madness that was to come.
Packing would waste time, and Lucy didn’t want to waste a second, so she didn’t bother to do anything but unplug her television and put on her shoes. Then, grabbing her keys, she made her way downstairs, and down a dark and narrow wall that lead to the front door. With not so much as a cardigan to keep away chills, she was on her way, through the sprawl of the Melbourne suburbs; the sun was still rising into the sky, partially hidden by luminous cream clouds. It was a beautiful day to start something.