Baby Fat

nineteen

Everything is blasting around him: the music, and the screams. But it's all background noise. His ears feel like they're filled with cotton. Everything is so blurry, and beautiful.

The alcohol pulses through his body. He moves wildly, like nothing matters. The alcohol and mix of drugs makes him feel so much better. So free. So alive.

He is addicted to the way he feels during this time. A state of pure bliss and happiness because he couldn't remember anything. Nothing from what happened earlier is there. It's just now, not then.

He throws his hands up in the air, and screams at the top of his lungs. People are all over him.

Their hands, his chest.

Their hands, his hair.

Their lips, his cheek.

They are everywhere, and he can feel them. He can see them through the colorful, strobing lights; through the fogginess of his red rimmed eyes.

Someone hands him a red solo cup and smiles at him. They wear a white t-shirt that says "Fuck You Too" and it glows in the dark. He likes it.

He downs the drink, and hands it back. He doesn't know what was in the cup, but he knows it made him feel 100 time lighter than before.

His hips move to the rhythm of the song. His hands pump the air. Everyone is touching.

Their crouch, his ass.

Their crouch, his crouch.

Their hands, his abs.

It was anything but pure. It was tainted, and it was dark. Nothing about this scene is beautiful. It's drunks and junkies. It's people so disoriented they pass out. It's people dying, and it's people crying.

It was people escaping for a little bit before facing harsh reality.

"Fuck off," he yells over the music. Someone's lips touch his, and he doesn't like it.

"C'mon man, one little kiss," the person screams back. They take his jaw into their hands and tilt his head to put their lips to his.

He doesn't want it. "Fucking hell, dude. Where are your goddamn boundaries." He pushes the guy off of him, and the guy stumbles backwards.

The guy scoffs and for a moment, everything is still. The party that once rocked with movement is silent. It's eerily scary. Because it had so much energy and it's all flowed into Corrie.

Corrie who could kick ass if he had the chance, the Corrie that kill if he could.

"You're fucking with death right now," Corrie screams out hysterically. "You think you know what you're getting into, but trust me buddy, touch me once more and I'll fucking kill you!"

Everyone is silent, waiting for the other guys response. Corrie doesn't know what he's getting into either, but he wants this fight. He could've let it go, but fights are worth it all, all the blood and broken nose.

"Trust me, buddy," the guy spits, "you don't want to threaten me."

Th guy stalks over to Corrie, and he pokes Corrie's shoulder, just to see if Corrie will snap.

And then everything is blurry.

His fist, their body.

His fist, their fist.

His fist, their blood.

All his hits were the epitome of perfection. Because he could see where the guy was going to go, where the guy would throw the next punch.