I breathed in and whipped my head up, a mess of brown curls falling down my back, grazing the screen of my phone, sending a wave of powder onto the shit stained floor. White shards glistened in my hair, and I tossled it lightly, licking my fingers, savouring the burn on my tongue with a smile.
I shoved into the cublice door, slamming it open with nochalance, ripping toilet paper from my heels as I went.
My hands trembled as I turned the tap, running my tongue down the edge of my phonecase as I fumbled the spout.
Cocaine highs are a fleeting taste of reality. They pull you out of your mind and into a world where music is by angels, and lights are to heaven.
'I need a cigarette' I murmered to Molly, my hands already deep in my purse.
The toilets were bright and the smell was beginning to get to me. I stared at the girl in the mirror, her eyes wide and black. She and I blinked in unison, our eyes fluttering slightly as they closed, twitching with anxious protests. Underneath were darkened rings, and behind every shade of purple was a cigarette sweet evening and a barefoot saunter home. Her under-eyes matched her darkening curls. Winding down her neck, slipping past her collar bone to her waist, lying dead just above her hipbones.
My eyes moved from the girl in the mirror to my fingernails, red and painted, beautifully alluring and expensively chiselled. Despite this, still their underside was stained yellow, and the faintest aura of guilt lay dormant beneath the plastic.
I moved away from the mirror, I'd been gazing for too long, coming to the realisation that I really would have nothing if it weren't for my looks. Looks were everything. Got you everywhere, anything. I moved a taloned finger towards my nose, flicked it upwards, looking for traces of white around my red raw nostrils. Nothing. Thank god, if it weren't for precision. Pushing out of the toilet door and into the mass of bodies on the still sticky dance floor, the sound of heavy techno in my ears moved me into the courtyard, where I fumbled my bag, an obnoxious clutch lined with tobacco leaves and powder. My talons reemerged and between them balanced a cigarette. My jaw tightened and my nose began to run. The air was cold and the ground, no longer sticky, kissed my heels. I continued towards the far left end of the fenced alleyway, dimly lit and perfectly seculed. The shadows sang to me. Whisperings of love and lust. Begging to envelop me in their darkened solitude. I wasn't alone, but with every step I took the hum of voices faded into the background, no more than an atmospheric instrumental to my dance towards death. Despite this an overwhelming sense of loneliness filled my chest, lovingly intertwined tobacco smoke, strangely tainted with dread. The night was far from young yet the hours dragged before me. How if at 20, when the longevity of my nights worried me, would I be able to endure a lifetime of washing, dressing, and eating? These monotonous chores, vital to the human experience felt so mundane to me. Why get dressed only to undress that same evening? Why shower to do so again the next day? My life stretched before me as the cigarette slowly smouldered between my fingers. I took a drag, ignoring the wetness that touched my eyes, trickled down my cheek. This was ridiculous. Why was I crying, I was out, young, thin filled with expensive cocaine, an expensive Marlboro red balanced between my fingers. I hated crying, it was something I didn't normally do, yet peppered with white powder and the seclusion of the smoking area my tears felt wet and right. Fitting, almost. Romantic, like Kate Moss crying over Johnny Depp, or Pete Doherty in my case. I let them trickle onto my top, a vintage bustier, tight, white and oh so right. I really couldn't be bothered to see my friends again, if anything they were grating on me, Molly with her awful dancing and choice in men, Jules with her concerned looks and shake of her head. She didn't do drugs. As of a month ago when a boy had told her drugs were an unattractive look on a girl, now making it everyone else's problem; lording It over the rest of us like we were junkies and she was a sober Range Rover mum. She was on track to be at this rate, I spat at the floor in disgust, probably more unattractive on a girl. I don't think anyone really likes their friends anyway, they're just there to go out with, do things with. I doubt they really liked me, with my never-ending string of complaints and incessant smoking, a lit cigarette constantly balancing between my bony fingers, usually in Jules's house or Molly's car. Three was certainly a crowd, and I was certain they hadn't even noticed I'd gone, or really didn't care.
'You're gorgeous, you know'.
I wasn't sure if my musings had somehow materialised. Oftentimes, when deep in thought, words of reassurance trickled out of my head and up my throat. Pursing my lips I took another drag, dark red discomfort lining my cheeks, embarrasment taking hold.
I was used to strangers approaching me, but tonight I wore a scowl; a warning to any potential suitors. Some nights I longed for this. No attention felt better than male. I relished in being their desire, the nights prize after flirtatious whisperings.
Shattering my thoughts and breaking my trance, a glass smashed in the crowd, the background conversations moving from music to musings. The fire at my nape grew larger, burning now into a swirling inferno, spitting screams of displeasure, begging me to leave. I turned for the door, dropping my cigarette, letting it fall to the ground with a dissatisfied hiss. It flickered itself into oblivion, the deep brown tip mocking its charred embers. It was as I was watching this when I finally realised I was no longer alone.
Dark brown eyes stared down at me. The stranger was anything but beautiful, his features perfect alone but unfortunately placed. He should have been gorgeous, but the execution was all wrong. In someone's mind he was likely a work of art; the thought was there but the painting captured nothing of the original. I found this strangely alluring. As unnerving as he was, I liked how I felt when I stared up at him. There was a grotesque abstraction about him, nothing was right yet everything was just.
'Do you have a light?' His jaw jutted out when he spoke. Against the shadows in our corner, an amber glow sporadically emerged from the door parallel, further distorting him under the fluorescents. Tentatively, I moved my hand towards his mouth, feeling his light breath against my skin as I clicked the lighter. Staring up at him I let the flame linger, watching it dance in his pupils as smoke ghosted from his lips to his nose. Strangely, these seemed to match his irises perfectly, the only colour distinguishing them being a faint ring of grey: A fine line between limbo and lust.
He inhaled deeply, drinking in the air, bathing in the pungent odour of smoke and beer. Leaning towards me, he held the snout to my lips, still gaping at him I copied his motions. Drinking in his air, bathing in his cologne.
'You come here often?' Oh christ there it was.
I laughed in his face. What a pickup line.
'Evidently, yes. Haven't seen you here though.'
'My first time, I'm from London, here on holiday.'
'Who the fuck comes here on holiday,' Newcastle was a shit hole, and he knew it.
He laughed uncomfortably, 'mini break, Newcastles a good night out you know.'
'Not if you live here.'
His eyes flashed in the darkness, the still hum of music coming from inside, almost enveloping his speech, overshadowing his voice.
'You want to dance?' Taking another drag of his cigarette, looking at me expectantly.
'Not especially.'
I wasn't sure what made me follow him out of the club and into the pale darkness. Perhaps it was his shining eyes or mysterious aura, or probably just the drugs and coarsing through my veins. This wasn't unlike me. Many a time had I followed a boy out of a club, regretting everything waking up next to a stranger, oftentimes less attractive than I remembered. Of course I was shallow. Everyone was. I'd spend the rest of the day loathing myself for adding yet another body to my everygrowing count, but would always do the same again the next week. This felt different though. This stranger wasn't inviting me into his home for a glass of wine, or casually stroking my leg; 'it's too early' and 'don't go home yet'. He was walking ahead of me with intent, that was for sure, but it didn't seem unsavoury.
