sing me like a choir. { august&achilles }
Jul 8, 2017 18:45:30 GMT -5
Post by calla on Jul 8, 2017 18:45:30 GMT -5
Rule number one: don't get caught.
Sneaking out through the bedroom window, draped in midnight air and canvas jackets. Walking down unfamiliar paths towards high ceilings and windows of technicolour light. There's already people passed out on the lawn, various items of clothing strewn around like ornaments.
Someone's screaming.
(Fucking again.)
An addiction with no escape hatch, blood always running hot and how did I even manage to get invited to a party?
Some friend of a friend of a friend.
Not that I can afford to have many.
Shots being handed out as I walk in, some pretty little blond thing at the front door with red lips and glitter over her eyes. Neon colours lined up on the counter, a neat rainbow of bad decisions. One finds its way into my hand, (because why the fuck not?). The girl tries to hand me more, red and blue temptations, clinking them together in futile celebration.
The sound echoes in my skull.
Being drunk means bad choices and I'd rather not wake up with a stranger tomorrow. Hazy memories and rude awakenings, I've never been too good with holding my liquor.
(Not much practice, I tell myself. There's a reputation to uphold.)
Twenty, thirty minutes in and somehow I'm not completely off my ass yet. The room is still level, a head still sits on my shoulders and it feels like a goddamned miracle. Red hands and blue bruises, stepping over more bodies on the stairs. I really need to stop doing this.
There's a thrum of bass that makes the floor shake and my temples pound. Screams of party-going careers looping over the lyrics of some sorry excuse for a melody. Everything is vibrating, following a unique tempo and moving in sync with the mass of bodies. It's a crowd I move away from. Plastered against a floral wall, there's the sharp corner of a counter digging into my side and the feeling keeps me present. The air is suffocating, everything overwhelming, and I've never liked the party scene.
The girl with the shots stumbles over, hair wildly tangled and in her face. She's in a dress that's a good three inches too short, dark makeup smudged around her eyes like she's slept in it. She's trying to say something that I can't hear over the thrum of music and laughter. I'm breaking out a smile instead, honey coated sedatives, hoping that she'll be satisfied and leave me alone.
Isn't that what normal people do?
She has my arm in a vice grip and I'm shaking my head, still smiling like she's a child, being dragged to where people look like they're trying to dance. It just looks like a mass of grinding teenagers. Seconds trickle by like molasses and I'm not even near drunk enough for this yet.
Her thin arms wrap around my neck, resting on my shoulders and settling with a weight she can't possibly posses. Manicured hands thread through my hair and her face is so close that I can smell the cigarette smoke on her and see the reflection of strobe lights in her eyes. Blue beams travel across her face, lighting up golden eyelids and turning her lips a numb violet. Bright and sudden, it reminds me of the lavender sprigs back home. She moves back and forth, uncomfortably close, following a rhythm that I can't hear and I've never wanted to run away from something this bad in my life.
There's a sudden violent motion as I'm wrenched backwards. World tilting for a moment, and the girl stumbles forward in her impossibly high heels. A voice screaming unintelligible words in my ear and I turn, seeing some buzz cut wannabe who's at least a good foot shorter than I am. He makes angry gestures between us, face reddening comically with every harsh motion. The blonde moves away from me languidly, draping herself over him and yelling something back with wide, innocent eyes.
He's attracted the attention of the dancers nearby, looking for some kind of entertainment in this hell house. Wandering eyes follow our movements and suddenly this feels familiar again.
Playing a game of keep away with crowds of growing tension.
(The only thing I'm good at.)
He pushes the girl off of him, fucking prick, and she trips, falling into the arms of what I'm hoping is a friend. He's still screaming, profanity spilling from his mouth and mixing with the sounds of stubborn youth with pride layered on their shoulders.
Slow with liquor and artificial emotions, he steps forward. Left foot leading, I can see his fist coming up to swing from a mile away. There's an arm raised before it can hit home, his fist caught in mine and that chemical confidence chugging through his veins wavers. Voice pitched low, telling him to fuck off, and I don't really care if he can hear me or not.
There's the heat of a crowd around us and sweet adrenaline coursing through my veins like an old friend. Twisting the guy's arm down, he cries out in surprise, sound lost in the air.
Here we are again.
Sneaking out through the bedroom window, draped in midnight air and canvas jackets. Walking down unfamiliar paths towards high ceilings and windows of technicolour light. There's already people passed out on the lawn, various items of clothing strewn around like ornaments.
Someone's screaming.
(Fucking again.)
An addiction with no escape hatch, blood always running hot and how did I even manage to get invited to a party?
Some friend of a friend of a friend.
Not that I can afford to have many.
Shots being handed out as I walk in, some pretty little blond thing at the front door with red lips and glitter over her eyes. Neon colours lined up on the counter, a neat rainbow of bad decisions. One finds its way into my hand, (because why the fuck not?). The girl tries to hand me more, red and blue temptations, clinking them together in futile celebration.
The sound echoes in my skull.
Being drunk means bad choices and I'd rather not wake up with a stranger tomorrow. Hazy memories and rude awakenings, I've never been too good with holding my liquor.
(Not much practice, I tell myself. There's a reputation to uphold.)
Twenty, thirty minutes in and somehow I'm not completely off my ass yet. The room is still level, a head still sits on my shoulders and it feels like a goddamned miracle. Red hands and blue bruises, stepping over more bodies on the stairs. I really need to stop doing this.
There's a thrum of bass that makes the floor shake and my temples pound. Screams of party-going careers looping over the lyrics of some sorry excuse for a melody. Everything is vibrating, following a unique tempo and moving in sync with the mass of bodies. It's a crowd I move away from. Plastered against a floral wall, there's the sharp corner of a counter digging into my side and the feeling keeps me present. The air is suffocating, everything overwhelming, and I've never liked the party scene.
The girl with the shots stumbles over, hair wildly tangled and in her face. She's in a dress that's a good three inches too short, dark makeup smudged around her eyes like she's slept in it. She's trying to say something that I can't hear over the thrum of music and laughter. I'm breaking out a smile instead, honey coated sedatives, hoping that she'll be satisfied and leave me alone.
Isn't that what normal people do?
She has my arm in a vice grip and I'm shaking my head, still smiling like she's a child, being dragged to where people look like they're trying to dance. It just looks like a mass of grinding teenagers. Seconds trickle by like molasses and I'm not even near drunk enough for this yet.
Her thin arms wrap around my neck, resting on my shoulders and settling with a weight she can't possibly posses. Manicured hands thread through my hair and her face is so close that I can smell the cigarette smoke on her and see the reflection of strobe lights in her eyes. Blue beams travel across her face, lighting up golden eyelids and turning her lips a numb violet. Bright and sudden, it reminds me of the lavender sprigs back home. She moves back and forth, uncomfortably close, following a rhythm that I can't hear and I've never wanted to run away from something this bad in my life.
There's a sudden violent motion as I'm wrenched backwards. World tilting for a moment, and the girl stumbles forward in her impossibly high heels. A voice screaming unintelligible words in my ear and I turn, seeing some buzz cut wannabe who's at least a good foot shorter than I am. He makes angry gestures between us, face reddening comically with every harsh motion. The blonde moves away from me languidly, draping herself over him and yelling something back with wide, innocent eyes.
He's attracted the attention of the dancers nearby, looking for some kind of entertainment in this hell house. Wandering eyes follow our movements and suddenly this feels familiar again.
Playing a game of keep away with crowds of growing tension.
(The only thing I'm good at.)
He pushes the girl off of him, fucking prick, and she trips, falling into the arms of what I'm hoping is a friend. He's still screaming, profanity spilling from his mouth and mixing with the sounds of stubborn youth with pride layered on their shoulders.
Slow with liquor and artificial emotions, he steps forward. Left foot leading, I can see his fist coming up to swing from a mile away. There's an arm raised before it can hit home, his fist caught in mine and that chemical confidence chugging through his veins wavers. Voice pitched low, telling him to fuck off, and I don't really care if he can hear me or not.
There's the heat of a crowd around us and sweet adrenaline coursing through my veins like an old friend. Twisting the guy's arm down, he cries out in surprise, sound lost in the air.
Here we are again.
