There was glitter on the floor of the party. Little gold fragments of tinsel and shiny silver streamers. Red plastic cups littered the wooden floor. Scattered around the room were certain belongings, abandoned carelessly by their owners, who were undoubtedly too drunk or too exhausted to remember to keep their items with them. In packs they had come, and were coming still; one group after the other they continued to fill the room.
Or at least, that's what I saw. The reality was that what I was seeing was nothing like the actuality of my situation. Or was it? The line between reality and my imagination had blurred far too long ago, and I'd now have to admit that what was once a blurry line, was now a circle. A circle that held both imagination and reality, mixing the two until there was no possible way to decipher what was real and what was a hoax. It was quite scary, in actuality. But freaking out would have no impact whatsoever, since I had not a thread of reality to cling to, so in that realization I let myself fall. Though I guess that it was possible that I might be floating, instead.
There were fancy people wearing fancy clothes. But I saw dirty humans draped in torn-up rags. The girls wore dresses of sparkling silk; the men coats of cashmere and other fine materials. But only piece of expensive clothing my eyes could see, was through a store display window, halfway down the street. Fizziling creme golden champagne bubbled from glistening glasses, or in some cases frothy, white-capped beer split haphazardly from cherry red plastic cups. The air smelled crisply of fresh pine-trees and sweet honey-cinnamon, and hints of a warm, homey smell that I couldn't quite place wafted through the air.
Except it didn't feel like home to me. The only scent filling my nostrils was the smoke. Not from a dazzling fireplace, but a measly bonfire. This was not a party for one meager individual victory, but a celebration for an immense triumph. Or, it was supposed to be, anyway. But that was not the way I perceived it.
I yearned to possess the partying people's ability to put caution to the wind and set-free their caged worries. I wished I could allow myself to let go of my heavy burdens of pain and join in their conversations. To return the glossy red and pink-lipped smiles with something other than false glee, and to laugh with a different tone than faux joy. I could not. I was not sure that they were even there. If I talked to them, would they disappear? Would they leave me, and take all of their warmth and riches with them? Would I be left in the cold, with the people in rags, breathing the smokey air and wishing I had been smart enough to keep my mouth shut? Or would they stay? If I spoke to them, would the people in rags dissolve? Would the smokey scent leave me alone with the happy people, instead? Could I join in the joyous conversations, and laugh in the glittering halls? I walked up to a mirror, my shiny heels clicking on the floor.
A party-goer walking past would've gazed into the mirror and seen something beautiful. They would have seen an intricate crown braid woven gently on my head, small jewels scattered along the pretty pattern. My soft blonde tresses fell over my shoulders, curling in a way that allowed the light to catch the gold undertones and glitter. The dress I was wearing was a bright vermilion color. The red silk fabric contrasted against my pale skin, and the waves in the long shimmering skirt folded like flames. Golden shadow was brushed over my eyelids and black winged eyeliner drew attention to my peridot green eyes. The look was set with a cherry red lipstick and pink blush. Two teardrop diamonds dangled from my ears. But I could not see her.
Gazing into my own eyes, I failed to see what I knew everyone else at the party was seeing. Instead of a brave hero, I saw a teenage girl. Staring back at me from my reflection was a scared soldier. She was broken and desperate. She wasn't wearing a dress, but a high-tech combat uniform, like the kind you might see in a marvel movie. It wasn't a striking red, but a deep black. Her curly golden hair was a dull ratty blonde, and her only blush was from the bloody cut on the right side of her face. And all the sudden, reality came crashing back and I knew: The broken soldier was me. The reality was the one of the dazzling party, filled to the brim with happy people. But while I looked like the gorgeous girl in front of me, in my heart I still felt like the soldier. I still felt the way I had that day. The day I had been bloody and bruised, dragging myself to a dirty bathroom and looking through the crusty mirror, attempting to clean the wounds on my face with a damp paper towel. I did not feel like the girl everyone else saw. The only thing I could find on that girl that was truly me, was a slim golden chain resting on my neck, the loop coming together to form an opal heart. I did not often wear jewelry, nor did I have much of a liking to it. I didn't usually like hearts, either. But this one was different. I was quite fond of this one.
It was one of two, given to me by a friend who had always had a knack for figuring out the sappiest things to do and then doing them. The friend was gone, and so it was probably unhealthy to keep a reminder of our friendship, but I couldn't bring myself to throw it out. I missed her. She had always loved celebrating, and I knew she would love to be here right now. Sighing, I turned back to the party. I might as well at least try to celebrate.
