Dorm 5108 | Mattheo Riddle

four.

MYSTICS nightclub in the dead of night is still fervent with booming music and blinding neon lights. The building is thriving with life whereas the rest of the village is in the comforts of sleep. Young witches wear glimmering dresses that barely cover their thin legs; the cloth hugs their hourglass bodies as they slink up against interested parties and melt into modern beats. I try not to compare myself to them but being in this type of environment brings back torrid memories that don't quite ever leave my mind.

I follow the man in front of me as we weave in and out of dark hallways full of strangers pressed up against the wall, doing things that should be done in privacy. Coming to a stop at a room in the back corridor, my attention is so fixated on Mattheo that I don't even hear the employee (I think he mentioned that his name was Dean, but I wasn't really listening) saying that Mattheo was unwilling to move from his seat unless I came to take him home. Typically, I would not care or even flinch at the slightest towards this kind of call. Initially, I didn't but I had promised Alicia–and I intend to keep my promise.

Mattheo is lifeless on the ebony leather sofa. The table before him is littered with drowned drinks and empty bottles. Red and pink hue lipstick stains the clear glasses but the only person in the room left from the party is Mattheo. Only him, alone as ever. In this particular state, I can relate to his feelings. I can empathise with his thoughts and his struggles. The only part of this situation that I can't identify with is his course of action.

"How long has he been like this?" I ask and take a step closer to the familiar scene, pushing down the trembles that are hitched inside my throat

"Since 10:00 PM. He ordered drinks for everyone, danced for a good hour with some women and invited them to the Black Pearl room he reserved. It's the same every weekend, except when he asked to call you. We usually just apparate him to the castle gates and his friend will help him in."

Ignoring how my presence has changed Mattheo's norm, I turn to face Dean, "Black Pearl room? Is that some kind of dirty pseudonym–"

"It's a VIP room. Whatever drinks they want, our resident mixologist can create on the spot."

A personal, one to one bartender. Perfect. Like the world needs more of that. "What did he order?"

"Death in the Afternoon back to back and a few glasses of Sazerac."

"A few?" I fold my hands, confused by how these establishments are run. They allow patrons to completely empty their wallets, drink literally to their death and force innocent bystanders to pick up the mess. "Sazerac–one cube of sugar, four dashes of Peychaud's Bitters, topped with rye whiskey and a layer of absinthe on the inside of the glass. Did he request a whisky with 100-proof?"

Dean's eyes widen, surprised that I had some knowledge in mixing drinks, not to mention drinks with some of the highest alcohol content that a person can humanly ingest. Little did he know that the two drinks Mattheo ordered were a couple of my fathers favourites. And by knowing what Mattheo was drowning himself in, I can tell exactly what he was trying to achieve tonight; a distraction from life.

"Yeah, Rittenhouse."

"And you let him drink more than one?" I don't let him answer. It's not Dean's fault that Mattheo made egregious decisions that led to this outcome. "I'm sorry–I don't mean to take it out on you. I'm just...annoyed."

Dean tucks his hands behind his back, "Are you his girlfriend?" He looks rather muddled by the coalition of Mattheo and myself. We are polar opposites next to each other. It seems like a practical joke, putting Mattheo and me in a room together. We don't add up correctly. We're a miscalculation.