running into the fire | abra + hannah

There is an earthquake, rumbling throughout the nightclub and reaching to my bones, rattling my rib cage and all of its contents. Its source is the stage, where a band beats on gargantuan drums and plays various instruments, harmonizing to create a wild sound that sends a crowd of teens almost hypnotically into a frenzy of dancing. Fluorescent stars among the blackness flash purple and red and blue and green and yellow. In the lights, constantly flickering from color to color, I can see the outlines of teens, people like me, with bodies alive with adrenaline and hungering for something - rushes of excitement, alcohol, sex - to fill the gaping void.

Nightmares and past pain have molded me into a hollow and restless girl, a phoenix with singed feathers and broken wings. I am a bird that flies no longer.

(I wonder, not if, but when I will burn again.

And not when, but if I will rise from the ashes.)

Burning is what I do best.

But in the midst of teen anarchy and the intoxicating fragrance of alcohol, flooding my senses, I am the fire, unstoppable and kindled by the raging chaos. The spirit of rebellion ricochets off of the walls of the nightclub, hitting others like heavy rain but lightly tapping me, gentle as snowfall. It is natural to me, and seeps into my system so easily through my lungs, full of air thick with vodka and sweat.

Tonight, I am free of alcohol's constricting embrace. There are no hands to push me to wrong decisions - but then again, I make them on my own just fine without the influence of alcohol. There are wrong possibilities all around me, each one of them bearing a soul and a heart.

Behind the prettiest faces are the darkest intentions, left to fester beneath the skin. Lurking in eyes glinting with flashing lights is a number of things, different for each person. But we all have something in common: none of us are good people.

If any of us were, we wouldn't be here.

The sickest part is that the darkness and wrongness is a magnet, drawing me in.

Bad people are more toxic than my beloved alcohol. They weave their way into the system faster, feed their victims dreams and hopes from a fantastic land long lost. And when they are finished, they hollow them out with their claws, tearing apart everything they gave them and everything they had.

I don't like pain, or getting hurt. And yet I cling to those who would, ultimately, hurt me.

But when I am broken, when I have fallen, alcohol has been my life jacket. It is there when people are not. Numbness is comforting, and when the numbness wears away,

just numb yourself again.

(Burning and drinking - the only things I've ever been really good at.)

Almost subconsciously, my hand reaches out for a glass on the platter, carried by a young female server in a small, tight black dress. It slips into my hand, second nature, and I quickly dart toward the opposite direction, a table, where the group of girls I came with sit in a circle with drunken smiles on their faces.

My eyes avert to a cluster of familiar faces - more girls from school - who whisper and look my way with narrowed eyes. As my ears strain to pick up their conversation, my feet drift along in the path ahead of me.

And suddenly, I collide with stone and warmth. My drink flies out of my hand and shatters, the high-pitched sound more audible than I thought it would be in all of the background noise. A river of whatever the hell that was is spilled onto a pair of shoes that are not my own.

My stomach turns over and ice sinks in.

There is a boy - though it doesn't look like he will be a boy for much longer - with ebony hair and captivating ebony eyes to match. He is taller than me - a rare thing. I wait for the rush of bitterness or the inclination to immediately dislike him, just for being taller than 5'9. I wait for the intimidation to grip me - I just spilled my drink on him; he is bound to be angry.

But there is nothing, only my heart, ceased for only a moment, and the flutter of a butterfly in my stomach.

I swallow a "Fuck you, watch where you're going." It scrapes down my throat like a wad of sandpaper, reluctant to go without stepping a foot into the spotlight.

"Um," I say instead. "Sorry, I - I get distracted easily and um . . . yeah. I'm a klutz. I'm also Hannah."

Heat surfaces in my cheeks, and with it, rose.

shadows settle on the place that you left

our minds are troubled by the emptiness

❧

{ table: zoë }