Clexa One-Shots

"I'm crawling back to your bed."

She doesn't want to be here. That's her first thought as music pumps its way through the club and courses its drug through the veins of the animals that reside there. Each lost by some substance that can fog their painful memories and their mundane worries and transform them into a vulture of life, circling and sucking the only sober air into their own lungs as they dance against each other and forget their responsibilities.

She's incredibly lonely, and of course she gets that way sometimes. Especially when there are people here she'd rather not see, all expectant and dancing against each other like they might melt if they weren't so close together and each one shoves new drinks in her hands. The music is pumping its way through her body and burning her ears and it makes her head spin as she takes another shot because it's handed to her and she is stuck.

She hates this club. It's all she can think as her head spins and her best friend dances against her while she makes eyes at a guy across the way. Her ex is here too, and she's taken it upon herself to prove that she's not lonely, kissing a new girl every hour about a foot away from where she stands. The lights above her flash in a black and red rhythm, she doesn't know if it's a theme or just a coincidence that such dark colors are here to reflect her mood.

It's been two months, and it honestly feels painful at this point. She's received no calls, and maybe she thinks spending Fridays at random clubs with lots of alcohol and loud music will take her mind off of the fact that her thoughts are a consistent wasteland of all emotion but one, that pumps its way through her entire body even now, even as the drug of the evening presses her against a cold wall and swallows her moan. Even as cold fingers tingle along her thighs and warm breathe brushes across her ear.

She burns in her brain that spins with another wasted Friday night. She circles her thoughts and grips her heart and her love burns. It burns but no matter how hard she tires she cannot burn her love into the ground, not even with the lips of another. She is lonely now, with wandering hands and teeth marks on her neck.

She has drunk too much.

And she won't remember this, she won't remember this when the sun rises on Saturday, and she won't remember this when she drops everything for an angel out of all the vultures that circle and hiss and trap her. She won't remember this when she slumps her head into the pillow next to blonde hair, but is told she can't stay again.

She won't remember.

"It's just easier if you don't," the pretty blonde girl had always said and she never did make her continue, she wouldn't demand an explanation even as her heart beat sinks into her stomach and turns her gut with the sorrow of losing what she's never had. And that's not even the worst part; the worst part is that this is her fault. She recommended it; she wanted it; even if she had been lonely and drunk when she had said it. She drinks too much, and now she really knows it.

"I'll call you when I need you," She had said when they started this but she hasn't called for two months, and that's also her fault. So she loses herself in the heaving heat between bodies and rhythms. But she hates it. She hates it and she's lonely, and the girl of the evening has rough hands that don't feel right on her skin. It pricks at her nerves, but she lets it go, getting drunker along with all her friends, all but one.

She didn't call me. She tells herself when she has the urge to check her phone because she knows she didn't. She never does on Friday nights anymore. She probably doesn't even miss her. She had only called her for one thing anyways; she even put off conversation, stopping her when she tries to make some.

She's hurting, she needs time. But it's been two years, so maybe that's not true anymore. Maybe that's not what it's about anymore. Does she even get lonely anymore? It doesn't seem like it, she's never alone. She's always laughing and smiling with someone but never with her. And she's just fed up with it. She is fed the fuck up. That's what she told her; however, she's figuring out now more than ever that she gets more than lonely sometimes.