Eventually

Chapter Thirteen

A.N. Introducing a new character, bc it's never too late to do that. David Henrie (idk why I'm casting so many old Disney stars in this book, maybe I'm being nostalgic) will be cast as the new fitty (can't have too many after all) Ben Buttermilk. I find this book just so fun and easy to write that I've started to update it more and more, I hope you guys are liking it too. Don't forget to vote, and comment, because I love replying to your comments. Xoxo, Clay.

Chapter Thirteen 

June 19th 1999 - Arthur Valgari

I ran back inside and left Amber to bleed out at the bottom of the stairs. In a way, I didn't even feel remorse. She could be dead, and I didn't even really care. In my head, I knew I should care, I knew I should be worried, but I just felt numb all over, like the ability for me to even give a single shit about another human being had disappeared.

The first thing I grabbed as I walked back into the party was the nearest cup, and downed it quickly.

Fuck her, I thought.

And fuck Freddie too.

Fuck them all, everyone, I continued.

And fuck you - yep, YOU. Fuck the whole lot of you.

I kept downing drinks one after the other, and fast. Soon, it was well passed midnight and I was still downing drinks, sitting in a corner of a dimmed room, surrounded by dancing and drunken idiots, and my mouth tasted bitter. Bitter like beer and the mixed aftertaste of various liquors, numerous fancy cocktails, and straight shots.

"Wow, you might wanna slow down, boy."

I looked up and saw a kid I barely recognised from school standing over me. I think he was on the football team. I couldn't remember.

"I don't really give a shit," I replied sternly, picking up another drink from the nearest table and gulping it down. The vodka stung the back of my throat, twisted my whole mouth. I wanted to be sick, but I didn't. I just kept on gulping until the cup was empty. Then I threw it aside. The whole time, the guy just stood there with his arms crossed and a silly smile on his face, watching me intently.

"Drinking your problems away?" he asked, sitting down on the chair opposite me. I eyed him and burped loudly. His hair was fluffy and dark brown, falling over his forehead in a kind of lost little brother sort of way. He looked almost innocent, if he wasn't so tall and so fucking fit.

"Better than dealing with them," I slurred, going for another drink. His hand fell onto my arm, and stopped me. I looked up to meet his brown eyes, slightly annoyed.

"Or you could talk about them," he offered.

"Yeah, I'm gonna tell a stranger all my lovely dark secrets. As if, pal," I grunted back at him, swiping his hand off of my arm. "You're gorgeous, but not that gorgeous."

"Cheers, mate," he laughed sarcastically. "So is that your secret? You're a homo?"

"Not really," I said back to him, picking up the nearest drink. "It's not a secret. Not completely, anyway."

"Well you either are or you aren't," he pointed out.

"Fucking fine, I'm a bit faggy, but who isn't these days?"

"Good point. No one is 100% anymore."

"Whoa, whoa, even you?" I paused to look him over. I wasn't one to stereotype (well, yes I was, but who cares about the details), but he wasn't you're average cock-gobbling faggot. Neither was I, but he was even worse.