a moth to the flame / fireflyz

Whitney should've known better.

The last party she'd attended had left her vomiting into the trash-filled bushes outside Kyle's house, her mouth somehow tasting even less pungent than it had when she had downed the alcohol in the first place. Stomach throbbing, she'd taken a few shaky steps forward before crumpling onto the ground. She'd shrieked that her heel was broken, these shoes cost so much money, there was no way she could get home, what on earth was she going to do? Eventually, a brave soul drifted up and informed her that the heel of her shoe was not, in fact, broken, and that she just needed to stand up. Vision blurry, Whitney climbed to her feet, wincing as she placed weight on her ankle. She did not offer a thank you, but instead removed her heels and limped back home. That should have been enough to deter her from going to any parties ever again.

But when an invitation found its way into her manicured fingers, the words instantly wormed their way into her memory. And when the night of the party came, she put on her nicest trainers - not heels, to prevent another rolled ankle fiasco - a light sweater and some shorts, and she ventured out to the beach. The moment she saw the bonfire stretching its fingers up to the horizon, Whitney knew that she should've known better.

She shifted in her trainers, feeling the soft terrain beneath her feet. She supposed she'd learned something from Kyle's trash party.

It wasn't cramped. The air was fresh. Her drink went down smooth, not like something she'd throw up later - or if she did, at least it wouldn't be terrible - and she actually felt at ease. Whitney held her cup gingerly above her head as she swayed to the music, a gentle breeze tousling her hair. Everything was perfect.

There was a brief lull, and Whitney brought her cup down to her mouth to drink. Over the rim, she could see the silhouette of someone lying on the beach, hair blending in with the sand. Whitney raised an eyebrow, placing her hand over the width of her cup and striding across the sand. As she neared, she could see that it was a girl, one she had seen before but couldn't place a name to. What's she doing?

Soon she was hovering over the girl, peering down at her supine form.

"Are you too drunk to stand or something?" Whitney quipped, lifting her cup to her mouth once more and nibbling at the rim.