𝐃𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐚 (𝐧.) 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞.
This sucked.
That was no surprise.
I was currently on my 2nd trip to the "restroom". That was my 'not so very creative' excuse to get away from the loud bass speakers at the very front where James and his band were playing.
Harlow had dragged us over here since we arrived. She told me in the car ride here that she was going to try to be "a supportive girlfriend," I didn't know that it would include obnoxiously blowing kisses at him the whole time. By their second song, I was already thinking of excuses to leave. The whole abeyance of the place was making my head spin. I was never the one for this kind of thing.
The loud vibrations coming from the speakers that I was inconveniently close to were hammering away at my head. It seemed like the only thing I'll be leaving tonight with is a splitting headache. How great.
I looked around the small but crowded coffee shop. I'd assumed another band would be playing tonight since it was only James's first gig, the place was filled with more people than I thought it would be for just him.
I headed towards the back of the shop where it seemed less crowded. I swore under my breath as I passed some eyeing me up and down thanks to my conveniently short dress.
They were huddled together near the back wall of the place. I figured they had found a way to sneak whatever alcohol they were drinking.
I closed my hand into a tight fist as I heard one of them shout over at me to get my attention.
"Hey beautiful, why don't you come over here?...we'll show you a good time."
I was never the type of person to explode with anger. I had always been calm and compliant. But I couldn't deny the feeling of my blood boiling under my skin as I heard these men howl with laughter in my direction.
"What's the matter beautiful? You lost?" One of them leaned on the other, as the other two raised their beers at me.
I turned away from them and closed my eyes tight as a maneuver to keep myself from doing something I would regret later. But maybe.... it wouldn't be that bad to cause them a bit of agony.
Yet, I knew that it wouldn't cause me any type of pleasure to make someone suffer. Or would it?
I walked forward and about to pass by them until I felt a hard grip on my arm stop me. My hand twitched with rage, the blood boiling in me surpassed what it felt like before. I tried pulling my arm away but the drunken man pulled me in closer, the smell of alcohol from his breath was nearly enough to make me gag.
"You answer me.....when I speak to you....whore..." He laughed which caused his other friends to do the same.
"Let. Me. Go." I yanked my arm from his grasp and grunted in anger.
"Women like you are only good at one thing..." He made a show of palming his crotch. I looked away feeling a wave of nausea arise.
I was surely going to regret this later on.
I tilted my head towards his beer bottle which shattered in his hand. Leaving glass shards stuck in the cut on his palm.
"Fuck," he muttered. The other men who were previously in a fit of laughter looked at me in astonishment but then they quickly decided it'd be best not to get involved so they turned away. A good choice on their part, for I wouldn't have shown mercy.
