Snapshot · (Roswell Fanfiction) · √

41. A Beautiful Mess

Kyle Valenti's Residence

(2003) Max is 18, Liz is 17

"Oh fuck."

Michael's subdued curse had Liz snap her head up from her preoccupation with the label on the beer bottle. This party truly and utterly sucked. She was so bored out of her mind that she was seriously considering chewing her arm off just so that she would have something to do.

What she witnessed as she brought herself out of her zoned out state sent shivers down her spine, making her knees weak. Her hand tightened around the beer bottle as she sucked in a cold breath, trying to remain on her feet.

Someone was being dragged along the floor; his legs stumbling along weakly as he was held up by the supporting arms and bodies of two jocks. She could only see the top of the head of the debilitated person, but it was impossible for her not to recognize him instantaneously.

Frozen in cold panic, she watched Michael rush up to his best friend, take over the position of one of the jocks as a supporting pillar, sling one strong arm around the weak person's shoulders and press the other into the chest to prevent the person from losing his fight with gravity and tip forward.

Michael's grumble was loud and fearful, like a threatened dog. "What the hell happened?"

Feeling the dead weight of his friend slouching against his body, the only thing keeping Michael calm at that moment was the raspy sound of his friend's breaths echoing in his ears.

Liz remained frozen as Michael guided the prone body to a nearby couch, wordlessly watching the scene unfold as panic whispered and trickled through her like an insidious gas.

She flinched at Michael's sharp curse as the position on the couch revealed Max's beaten up face to him. But she was relying on her hearing at that point, the curious party guests having formed an impermeable circle around Max; efficiently keeping Liz firmly on the outside.

The air burned the inside of her throat as she pulled harsh breaths into her lungs. The harder she breathed the less air she seemed to be getting. Her fingers tightened convulsively around the beer bottle as the world started to swim in front of her.

"Lizzie!"

The tilting world snapped back onto its correct axis and she inhaled shakily albeit deeply.

Her fingers were stiff and her knuckles white as she, with great conscious effort, removed them from their desperate hold on the bottle.

She was barely aware of pushing herself through the rows of people. Suddenly she was at Michael's side, staring down into Max's face.

The subsequent planned breath died on her lips as she felt the floor beneath her feet go unsteady.

"She's here, Max."

Michael's statement brought the world back into sharp clarity and she flicked her eyes into the direction of her brother for the split of a second, confusion settling across her features. Max's voice snapped her head back towards her life-long enemy's face.

"Parker?"

He was looking at her through narrow eyes, one already closing up as a result of a hard blow to the side of the face, another partly covered in caked blood from a wound on his forehead.

"You look like you've been to war," she breathed, confusion marring her voice as soon as the words started to leave her mouth. She frowned. That was the first thing she said when a beaten up, barely conscious person tried talking to her?