The Illusion of Permanence

Chapter 8

Everything is loud and dark and intense. When I was back at home, I never went to a party—and even if I'd had the opportunity to, I don't think I would have gone voluntarily. Not only did I not have any friends that would invite me to one, but I didn't have any free time to spend at one, and I was also simply never interested in one. It's not really my scene, if you know what I mean.

I didn't even really decide to go to this party, it just kind of happened. Like, we got to Mike's campus apartment and of course he didn't care at all that we were there or planning on staying with him for who knows how long, he just let us put our stuff down near the futon and settle in. Then a small group of his friends came over, then a group of his roommate's friends, then a group of people who were friends with his friends, and then some friends of those people, then some people who I don't think were really friends with anyone but they "brought the good stuff" so they were let in, and before I knew it I was smushed in the corner of the living room between Luna and a pudgy guy whose tee-shirt was stuck to his pale skin via an excessive amount of sweat. Now, I'm still in the same corner, but Luna has disappeared and so has the sweaty guy. They've been replaced by a couple consisting of a girl wearing all black who is too skinny to be healthy and a boy who is tall and brutish and probably only wants one thing from this helpless girl. There's a heavy pop song playing—Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time by Panic! at the Disco—and it would be fun to dance to if I were able to physically move at all.

And I thought I was uncomfortable two hours ago when I was between Luna and the sweaty guy.  

I was wrong.

I did not know the meaning of true discomfort until this moment.

The couple is hardcore making out, like I'm sure her tongue is way farther down his throat than is comfortable for him, and his hands are roaming around her body over places I would rather not mention by name. And they are really close to me. Like, uncomfortably close. Like, some of their spit—I don't know whose exactly, but it is probably a mix of both—is actually being sprayed onto me. I want to get out of here, but they are squishing me further and further into the corner with every grope and I can't move at all.

No wonder I never wanted to go to a party.

"Mia!"

I hear my name faintly from across the room, and at first I'm sure I imagined it. But then I hear it another time, and then a third, and I notice that Luna is trying to weave her way from one side of the room to the other through the maze of bodies trying to get to me. She's holding a clear plastic cup in her hand, which is a quarter full with liquid of an indeterminable color. She reaches my corner, shouts "EX-CAH-USE ME!" at the slobbery couple, grabs my hand and swiftly pulls me out. Once I have been freed from that trap, I feel like I've been saved from drowning in a puddle of quicksand, and I can finally breathe again. The relief only lasts a few seconds before I realize that the air quality is not much better than it was before. No matter where in the apartment we go, I am going to feel suffocated.

"I need to get out of here," I yell to Luna, trying to be heard over the noise.

"What?" 

"I need to get out of here!" I lean in closer to her ear and scream it louder.

"Nah, babe! What you need is a drink!"

My stomach starts churning at the thought. I've never had a sip of alcohol in my life, and I planned on never having one. I've seen the effects of it far too many times. At the mere mention of it, the bruises that are still spotted all over my body begin to ache as if to remind me of their cause. Alcohol is poison. It hurts. It hurts those who drink it and those who are around those who drink it.