Castle of Estelle

Part 1

Chapter 1: A Drunken Mistake

I'm not one for social events. I'm not really one for any event. I'm a bit of an introvert, but for once that didn't matter to my friend Eric. His girlfriend of three years just disclosed that she had been cheating on him for two of the three...with his brother Darren. It's hard to argue with a distraught writer who has all the right words to gain sympathy. Beyond that he has these sad eyes like that of a lonesome puppy. I don't drink, and neither does he, but for some reason that was his proposal for dealing with his sorrow. I've never understood the correlation between misery and alcohol. It seems in times of sorrow the last resolution would be a depressant, but a friend is a friend no matter how delusional they are in times of dismay. I'm also not one for crowded places, but he of course feels need to go to the packed club three blocks down.

Shoving my toes into a pair of heels I haven't worn since my graduation party is less than motivating. I haven't painted my nails in probably three years and here they are shining bright pink. When I look at them I feel odd, I feel different. It sounds comical, but it's as if my feet no longer belong to me: it's as if they belong to someone who actually enjoys the beauty industry. I'm so out of my element I feel like a fish gasping for breath on the branch of a tree. I was requested to wear a dress, but of course I don't own one for this particular event, so I await for Eric to bring me what he found. I find humor at the thought of Eric shopping for women's clothing. I imagine his large hands with his slender fingers sorting through the women's clothing. I imagine he would flip through them until he found something loud, it's in his character. I see him holding out the dress imagining it on me. I guess this is a way of finding out what he thinks of my body. If he chooses something revealing, he must think I have favorable assets. If he chooses something more conservative maybe he feels I should be more modest. I feel indifferent either way, I've never considered what he would think of my physical appearance; we're too close. A knock on the door means he's found his way in. Not entirely sure why he knocks. He has a key and if he shows up he's coming in. I actually like that about him, I like that sense of comfortability we share. In seconds the bathroom door opens and there he is standing holding the shortest dress I've ever seen. Of course, there I am, standing in pantyhose and a bra. When you've been friends this long, nothing really phases you. He hands me the dress and I take it and shut the door in his face.

"Why would you pick something so revealing?" I call through the wooden door.

"We're going to a club, not a funeral Becca."

I'm actually flattered that he would pick something so risky. I feel my lip involuntarily raise to my cheek. I blush a bit to think that my body is worthy of display to such a degree. I say nothing of course, it isn't a conversation Eric and I would typically hold. I have asked before what he thought of me. He didn't say much just, "If you don't know by now, you never will."

Relentlessly I make an attempt to step into the dress, but foolishly left my heels on. I step on the fabric and my ankle goes sideways as my body follows onto the hard bathroom floor. I lay there in a catastrophic mess on the floor. Making enough noise for Eric to open the door to see what happened only to find me with my hair in my face and pantyhose ripped up the side. No hesitation came to his laugh, and I felt so pitiful but I cried out hysterically as well.

Twenty minutes and a new pair of pantyhose later, I was as ready to leave as I ever would be. I felt like a whore in a short dress, heels, and hoop earrings, but it was for a good cause. I hope. Eric of course was in jeans and a V neck t-shirt. That is his idea of high class. If I were to see him in a suit I may just die. Walking out of the house felt so shameful, I felt like a prostitute and Eric my low class pimp. We eventually made it to his car in time for half of the neighbors to poke their heads out from behind their blinds. I passed the woman who lives in apartment 31A. Her hair stood still, frozen with hairspray. I just always assumed her face was also stuck on one expression but she surprised me today with a discouraging scowl. Progress. Once in the car, I shut the door as quickly as I could, but Eric took his sweet time. When he did make it into the driver's seat I looked at him with a bit of resentment.