The Retribution Chronicles

M i r i a m | t w o

Miriam hated Sandy's with the power of a thousand, blistering suns. If possible, she would've happily left it an ashen heap after her first freshers event almost three years ago, where, after five too many drinks, she ended up in the men's bathroom staring at a row of dicks. Dicks which confirmed, in no uncertain terms, there was nothing attractive about male genitalia. In fact, she was half convinced there was nothing useful about it either, leaving the appendage damned as both shockingly ugly and eternally pointless.

Unfortunately, despite her undying hatred—of Sandy's, not penises—Miriam still found herself squashed in an overfilled booth surrounded by Wes, her flatmate's, friends. She was also decidedly sober. A poor choice considering everyone else was just shy of getting white girl wasted.

"We'll leave in ten minutes," Wes whispered when the music turned from house to full blown EDM, earning a wince from Miriam and a chuckle from him. He then brushed his nose against her cheek and added, "Promise."

On any other occasion, Miriam would've smiled. But the combination of inane music and slurred speech left her swallowing a grimace. "You stay," she said, offering him a lopsided frown. "I can get home by myself."

"You sure? I can—"

Before he could stop her, she clambered over his lap and hurtled out of the booth straight onto the dance floor, which seemed to want to swallow her whole as it contracted unpredictably. For a moment, she feared it would do worse than imprison her. That, in its all-knowing wisdom, it would return her to Wes. But the exit eventually came in sight. Unfortunately, just as it did, a hand clamped around Miriam's wrist and yanked.

She was jerked into an alcove beside the cloakroom. It was lit by a single spotlight the emitted enough harsh white lighting for Miriam to identify her unidentifiable abductor. "Can I help you?" she hissed, twirling her wrist against the palm of her hand. "Or better yet." She dropped it. "Do I know you?"

"Lydia," her attacker said. "We met last year, in a women's history module."

"Right." Miriam didn't bother to smile. "Can I help you?"

Lydia blinked twice and flicked her leave-out over one shoulder, exposing a stretch of skin from her neck to her elbow and the tattoo which slipped down her bicep in thin, cursive lettering. "There's this guy," she said, taking a step forward.

"There's always a guy."

"Yeah, well, he's an arsehole."

"And?"

"And I need your help." Lydia said it as if it was the simplest thing in the world. And, in some ways, it was. It certainly wasn't anything Miriam hadn't heard before, especially at Sandy's. Which was part of why she hated it. After all, it was one thing to seek out her services sober, and another drunk.

"I can't help you right now." Miriam turned. "Speak to me when you're not drunk and riddled with jealousy."

"I haven't had a drink tonight." Lydia caught her arm. "I wasn't even supposed to be here, but—"

Miriam stopped and leaned against the awful pink paint. "You're riddled with jealousy?" she guessed.

"Curiosity," Lydia said.

"Well, you know what they say about that."

"Yes, but I'm more curious about how this works." She gestured between them, eyes widening until they threatened to pop out and lodge themselves in Miriam's nostrils.

"How what works?" Miriam sighed.

"Are you serious?" Lydia's voice rose an octave.

"This is not the time or the place," Miriam said, turning again. Lydia caught her wrist and forced Miriam to take in her pursed lips and deferential please until she let out a gurgled sigh. "But." Miriam rolled her eyes. "If you're that desperate, I'll be in the smoking area in about five minutes." She then nudged past and returned to the main room.