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The acrid taste is still present in the back of my throat like a reminder not to take anymore. But my skin feels tight and my muscles feel loose, and I’m just waiting for the right moment togo back upstairs, to the bathroom we used when we first arrived, and take more.
Wind whips the thick cloud of fruit scented smoke away where I sit out on the back deck. Too many faces of girls I don’t really know surrounding me, but they all seem cool. No one tries to talk to me, but there’s no creepy guy like the last house party I went to, so I don’t mind.
Resting back in the corner of an L-shaped sofa, glass coffee table set before it, topped with crushed cans, plastic cups, cigarette packets and spilled drinks.
I ignore it all, the mess, fingers twitching to clean it up so I can focus on something other than my crippling anxiety threatening to make a sharp return. I stare out over the back garden. Past the dancers, into the woods at the back, the dense trees are both inviting and terrifying. Quiet, away from the people I don’t know at this party. There’s no light in there, though, which means it’s definitely not for me.
I inhale the fruity concoction from the vape in my hand, my lungs filling with artificial sweetness and I look up at the moon as I blow it back out.
Hands grab my shoulders from behind and I flinch, jerking in the tight hold, relaxing just as quickly at the sound of the familiar raucous giggle.
“There’s a hot guy in there I wanna fuck, come dance with me!” Bonnie laughs.
Her nails pinching my bare skin, my shoulders, chest and upper back exposed in the dress Emma leant me. Too much of my legs on show to really feel at ease. Something short, strapless and tight, thankfully black.
“Pleaseeeeeee,” she jumps up and down, pressure on my shoulders.
I laugh then, feeling light as I stand, tossing the vape to the table, nodding my head, stepping between the angled feet of thegirls along the couch beside me. I let Bonnie take my hand, lead me back into the overcrowded house and I don’t mind it. Can hardly feel the people around me, their sweat slicked skin, their eyes.
I let my own fall shut as Bonnie’s hands grip my waist, mine looping limply over her shoulders, our hips flush with her in skyscraper heels and me in flat boots, drawing her closer to my six-feet.
Music pounds through the speakers, flooding through my veins as we grind together, our breaths mingling as we work our hips to the grungey playlist thumping through the surround sound speakers.
She giggles, her lips against my neck as I tip my head back, a smile on my mouth that feels real in the moment.
“He’s looking,” she whispers, running her bottom lip over my pulse, my ears buzzing with the volume in the room, the voices, the music, the rushing of my blood. “He’s coming over here,” she breathes, and I can feel her smile against my skin, and I don’t hate it, liking touch when I feel like this, when I’m floating.
I feel movement at my back, masculine words spoken over my shoulder, one of Bonnie’s hands leaving my hip, her arm brushing my waist, reaching past me to the mystery guy at my back. I smile, still dancing as her fingers flex over my hip bone. Pressing me between them, the three of us dancing from song to song.
I’m flying now, my body weightless, stress a dying thing shrivelling at my feet. I don’t think about my father, the consequences for switching off my phone.
I’m hot, bladder tight a while later, as I spin my way free of them, letting Bonnie and her boy grind without me as their buffer.
She grabs at my hand, twirling me back, “Thank you!” Smacking a kiss to my cheek, her lips beside my ear, “You good?”
I nod, laughing as I back away, watching them dance, Bonnie’s smile a beam of light in the dense cloud of smoke that swirls across the ceiling.
Turning, pushing my way through the crowd, needing to pee. I make my way through the dancers, a laugh bubbling in my chest as I find the stairs, following the route we took earlier as a group to a quieter bathroom.
The empty bathroom is through a bedroom, and I flick the light on as I hurry though it, the large room clean and spacious, no personal effects, a plain navy bedspread.
I take care of business, washing my hands in the sink. Bracing my hands on either side of the basin, I stare at myself in the mirror, the marble counter cold beneath my palms. I feel a little off balance, like I could fall if I sway too hard, but I smile all the same, the risk welcome when I don’t want to feel anything else.
My makeup is sleek, courtesy of Emma, smokey eyes and a dark lip. I can hardly notice my bloodshot eyes, or find the bags beneath them as I search my face for any telling signs of being less than okay.
My fringe hangs low, parted a little in the centre, and using my fingers, I sweep them over my brows, flicking the ends of hair free of my lashes and take a deep breath, staring at my pinprick pupils. Lips pulling into a smile, even though sadness burns in my chest, I focus on smoothing down my hair, the top half of it up in a little bunch at the crown of my head, the rest of it in loose waves down my back.
I look good, I should feel good.
But I catch sight of the almost healed scar in my shoulder, turning side on to the mirror so I can see it better.
Lynx’s teeth.
I wish I hated that it’s there.
Permanent.
But I don’t.
