Beyond Reason

Chapter 1: Parties

~Joey~

I hate parties.

Not like hate-hate, it's more of an 'I don't particularly dislike you, but would just rather not spend time with you' thing. You know?

Yeah, no. I hate parties. I like the fun and the friends and the dancing, but if you ask me, fun doesn't have to be had in such a huge number. But who cares? It's not like I can't read through them, anyway.

I sigh as I get to the third door of the night, rapping my knuckles thrice against the hardwood. I tiptoe and press my ear to the door to enable me hear over the music vibrations pulsing through the rest of the house. When there's no sound or voice restricting me from entering, I turn the knob and let myself inside the bedroom.

Empty. Of-fucking-course.

I bring my black solo cup to my lips, taking a sip of fanta mixed with a watered down shot of tequila. I don't usually drink. I'm a lightweight and I have an exam tomorrow morning. For tonight though, I'm not thinking about important things like exams and my general wellbeing. I need the alcohol to function if I'm going to find Kevin in this combination of bad music, people and smoke, typical of college house parties. I don't get the hype of getting high in a room full of strangers but you know what they say, each to their own. They're all Kevin's kind of people.

I gulp the last of my drink, set the empty cup on the lamp stand and bid the vacant room goodbye. I mutter a string of apologies as I sidestep a shirtless couple that just climbed up here from either the dancefloor or the makeshift kitchen bar, rocking back and forth with their tongues down each other's throats. Neither of them pay me any attention as they shuffle into the room I just vacated.

"Use protection," I mutter, knowing fully well that they won't hear me.

My phone beeps somewhere in my bag as I approach the next door on the hallway. I don't stop to fish it out, instead, I dig my hand through the side pocket of my backpack, tugging the device out as I power on. The sooner I find my probably passed out brother, the sooner I can leave this place.

Heather: Any luck?

Me: Nope.

Heather: Maybe he's not there?

I hate to consider that possibility. When he texted me to come get him, he specifically stated that I'd find him 'as soon as you get here, Joey,' and though I admit to wasting a few moments doing a little people watching for myself, I've had it in mind this entire time that he's drunk and lying somewhere, waiting for me to find him. Thanks to Heather, I'm now worried that I've been wandering for half an hour, in search of someone who's not even in the damn house in the first place.

Me: Well NOW that's a problem.

Heather: Just come back. He'll find his way.

This is where I have to shake my head at her. Being an only child, Heather has never understood, or had to understand the simple unspoken rule that says "when your useless twin brother goes out of town for a party and asks you to come pick him up before he misses his last midterm paper and gets shit from your overbearing parents—who, by the way, are so up your ass, they require nightly calls— you don't bail on him, you show up because it will become your problem sooner or later."

I repeat the knock on the new door and push it open to find two people, both bent to positions I'd rather not have to see ever again. One of them notices and screams at me, while the other says nothing as I shut the door and spin around, powering back the way I came. Oh, dammit! this is ridiculous on so many levels.

The party downstairs is still blazing, and I blend into the crowd once again as I cross from one end of the human cereal box to the other in search of an exit. I'm not going home without Kevin but I do need fresh air, so I don't suffocate and die in the middle of a stranger's mansion of a house. Of all the ways I've ever pictured myself dying, 'lack of clean air at a house party' has got to be the lamest one.

Falling into the temptation from the itch in my throat, I make a pitstop to the kitchen bar to make myself another drink because why not? I've been here a while already, and as for tomorrow morning, I'm not going to be the first student to ever show up hungover for midterms. Deal with it, Professor Hansen.

I grab a vodka bottle from the long table and a solo cup from the long stack nearby. I set the bottle beside the cup on the table and find my way to the fridge to get juice. I return, mix the drinks without making eye contact with any of the balking guys around, then successfully slip away with my new vodka cranberry mix.

When I reach the dancefloor, I take my first sip and pause in my step to squirm. This tastes like ass. I drink it again, deciding it adds to the general aesthetic of my night, anyway. My stomach grumbles in disapproval. Okay, no, seriously. This tastes bad.

A few minutes later, it's almost like someone's messing with the thermostat. I tug at the crew neck of my white shirt to ease the discomfort from the stuffy air as I continue trying to get outside. If this place smelled like beer and smoke before, I can't begin to explain what it smells like right now, all I know is that it's irking the last string of patience in my body.

When I get to the centre of the room, conversation and music slowly start to morph into a concoction of distorted sounds, almost mechanical. The music soon lessens, but only because my ears start to throb in tune with my heartbeats, which grow even louder as said organ pulverizes my chest.

What the hell?

Lights and bodies swirl before me in a messy haze of colors and unwarranted skin to skin contact as I fight to make my way through the human hurricane. I regret not taking my jacket. I regret coming here. Panic blooms in my chest as my stomach continues its assault with bitter, slimy bile running up my throat to my mouth. I clutch my stomach with one hand and struggle to stop staggering and stand still.

I run a quick recap of everything I've eaten in the course of the past few hours, which is nothing. My head feels like a blank box, despite the melange of thoughts, buzzing all around inside, reaming me out for every bad decision I've ever made up until this point.

The agony is heightened as the temperature in the room slowly descends until cold sweat breaks out of my pores, glueing my shirt to my back. People around don't seem to notice, as they move past me, shoving me out of their way like a rag doll. I blink hard, trying to gain a semblance of balance but all my efforts go futile.

The entire house soon tilts to one side and I find myself helplessly gliding to one corner of the room, my speed nowhere in my control. My knees give way to the pressure, causing me to slam my shoulder against a wall and collapse to the floor as the rest of the room continues to spin in circles around me. I blink thrice and shut my eyes, letting the darkness overtake me.

This. This is why I hate parties.