One Journey, the Final

Chapter 17:

Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months. The days were quickly slurring together, and I couldn't even keep track of things. Was it Monday? Was it Thursday? What year was it? Each night I spent at a different party house, surrounded by people I didn't know. Lyla had tried to call me for the past two weeks. I never bothered to call back. The only thing I would hear from her is, "What the crap are you doing? What is wrong with you?" And I didn't want to hear that. Especially right now when my plan was taking full stride.

Tonight, I would be attending a secret location. We would see how this would go.

I layered one more piece of extravagant jewelry and looked in the mirror. I sighed. I looked like some hooker picked up outside of a club. Too much makeup, not enough clothes. Funny. We work so hard to cover up our face and display our body, when in actuality, we should be displaying our face and covering our body. I almost ran into my bed and threw a blanket over myself, but I just could not allow myself to do that. I had made a decision, and I was going to have to stick to it. No matter how much I hated it. Or how cold I was. I tried to pull my skirt down a little bit more, but it was no use. That only made me have to adjust my shirt, which then made it really too low cut. What was I getting myself into?! Without taking another glance I clicked my sky-high heels out and into my car. I was going to meet Dave at the address he sent me. Apparently it’s supposed to be the best “party house.” I was a little nervous, but there was bound to be pictures taken, then the pictures would end up on the news, and Harry would see me having fun without him. And that’s all that I needed. When I pulled in front of the house, I felt my heart race. It wasn’t a very neat house, dirty, and the walls were crumpled. I gulped. It was as if I was looking down into the eyes of the most venomously dangerous creature known. I began to hyperventilate. Was I having a panic attack? I placed my shaking hands into my lap, and persisted to count to twenty. When I got to twenty, I would swing my door open, go inside, and never look back. ....20! I screamed in my brain. I swung the door open, nearly twisted my ankle as I landed on the heels, but caught the fall. I dusted myself off, checking myself one more time, and sped walked to the house. I creaked the door open, the music pouring through the crack in the door. All I saw was a mass of people dancing in the center. I swam through them, looking for Dave. Once I found his familiar face, I weakly smiled.

“Hey babe!” he said, pulling my close and collided our lips against each other. His breath tasted and smelled like beer. I gagged. I quickly pulled away before he lost it, and asked,

“How much have you drank?!”

“I don’t know….I lost track after seven,” he drowsily said. “Here have one.” I eyed the bottle in his hands. It had a light layer of condensation on it, perfectly cold. Except for one thing.

I hate the taste of alcohol.

Any kind! I didn’t matter if it was beer, tequila, or a martini. I couldn’t choke one down if I wanted to.

                “No thank you,” I politely said, pushing away the beverage.

                “No thank you? I invite you to this party, and I offer you something to drink. You better take it,” his voice got louder. Afraid of what this less-than sober Dave might do, I took the drink, and took a horrifying sip. He smiled, pleased.

                “Do you want to dance?” I asked, trying to get him off the beer subject. His eyes lit up, and suddenly he’s pulling me to a vacant spot in what might be a living room. I try to dance, try to enjoy myself. It’s not exactly working. Noticing my awkwardness, he pulls me in close. And for a second, I feel safe. He whispers in my ear,

                “Things could be a lot easier if you would just take another sip.” I push away from him, angry. Fueled with anger I gulped down the entire bottle, and I instantly felt dizzy. Why did I just do that? I felt a gurgling in my stomach. It was buzzing, fizzing. I felt light. He was right. It was a lot easier to dance and feel comfortable after taking the sip. My stupid expression matched all the other attendee's looks. The music played, and my hips swayed. I felt less control of my mind. I couldn’t keep track of the time. I couldn’t think straight. I think I puked three times. As I was gasping for breath in front of a sink in a bathroom, tasting the beer coming back up, I heard something crash and break. Following that, over the already ear bursting music, I heard screams. I almost locked myself in the bathroom, waiting for the commotion to pass, scared that it might lead to something worse. But then again, a big commotion might just be what I needed to sneak out before Dave could realize that I was gone. Then again, he was more than drunk¸ along with the rest of the people here. I quietly twisted the doorknob (as quiet as you can be being about a quarter drunk), and crept out. Just as I was about to leave, I heard Dave’s familiar voice screaming out unintelligible words. I turned around to see him swinging at another guy. I instantly flew through the crowd, trying to break up the fight.

                “Dave! Dave! Stop! Stop it!” I said, trying to pull him back. The guy’s a solid rock. So instead I dumbly stood in front of him, yelling, “Dave! You need to go home! Stop!” My words were starting to slur together. The other guy wouldn’t stop either. One bad aim and I felt a terrible pain in my arm. I looked down to see a quickly reddening spot on my arm. He punched me. I met his eyes, and anger was beaming out of them. He swung again at me, this time hitting my face. I grunted and fell back. He hit me hard. I clutched my cheek. I felt tears forming in my eyes, and a spot right below my eye already swelling. No one had even seen me get hurt. Just as I was about to leave, I heard the front door burst open. Cops piled in, guns ready to press the trigger. I couldn't exactly make out what they were saying, but I was pretty sure they weren't here to do the Harlem Shake.