"You think he'll let you?"
"You think he can stop me?"
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Margeux can't decide whether she's a sociopath, or a psychopath. Continuous events tend to sway her either way. Out of all the people she could kill on her eighteenth birthday, she en...
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TW: Gore, violence, death, mentions of SA.
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BEING NINETEEN IN London has never felt so great.
You can drink, you don't have to worry about getting randomly shot - and the accents surrounding you make you feel like you're either in Bridgeton or Derry Girls depending on the area.
So celebrating my nineteenth birthday here is pretty special.
Except; I'm alone.
Mom's back in California with my fourth step-dad of the year, not being able to leave with her pregnancy and all.
Surprise! I'm about to have a baby sister! Let's see if she turns out just as mentally ill as me.
I have few friends from Cali, and even the ones I have wouldn't want to come to London with me - so...yeah. Here I am. Alone.
With a cigarette still pressed between my teeth by a cold and brooding alleyway in the bustling London streets, I take my phone out from my back pocket and scroll through my contact list.
I have even fewer friends from college, and even less that are in London right now. I thought that being a lone-wolf in the freezing country would be fun and mysterious. A main character aesthetic per se.
But all that's really fun about that is wearing the scarves and Doc Martens. Being alone? Surprisingly, doesn't suit me.
With a final puff, I drop the small bud on the ground and grind it into the concrete with my boot before returning my pink coloured fingertips to my pockets and adjusting my coat.
Am I really about to spend the night alone on my birthday?
Probably.
Unless I find someone in a bar.
Turns out, sex can be fun.
Fun when the person you're doing it with is adequate, and fun when there's no attachment. Fun when you know they aren't betraying you, since there's nothing to betray. Having sex with feelings? Ends up getting a certain someone killed.
The last boyfriend I was attached to and had almost-sex with...well you know what happened to him. Haven't dated since. Not that I'm really heartbroken over him...just...whatever. Paranoid I guess.
Bars in London always have funny names.
The one I'm entering right now, is called 'Nightjar'.
Nightjar has funky music playing live in the background, mood lighting hung up by chandeliers on the ceiling and stools for chairs.
It's lowkey, has enough people for me to hide between, and most importantly, a staggering alcohol collection displayed behind the bar.
