We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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My knickers and the rest of the feverish body is doused in tequila, I have lost the sense to differentiate between an apple and an orange, and some girl with neon green hair has gone down on me. Typical Friday night, huh?
I have been staring at the ceiling from the kitchen counter top and counting the number of shot glasses lying next to me, but for some reason I lose the count after five. When my balled out eyes glance around, I see a large number of people scattered all over, not a speck of white space in vicinity. I wonder if I left the front door open again, or if they live here already?
Realising the insanity of my untamed thoughts, I get a hold over my drowsiness and stumble my way across the jam packed living room. I barely make it through the perspiring crowd, subjecting myself to a bunch of curses– ones that I didn't even knew existed until tonight. I end up halting at their bedroom instead, and almost believe that they will come out any second now. Dad, with a laugh threatening to break apart his stern look, and Mom, glaring at him and then at me, ultimately grounding us both. Sometimes it doesn't even feel like they are gone, and I have to remind myself of it by latching this room and all the memories until the next time I stumble upon it.
By the time I locate my room I lose out on the energy to even stand up straight, and bend down to attempt a hand at the shiny door knob. "Do these things need a key?" I mumble under my alcohol scented breath– my mind travelling back to an hour ago, when I helped myself with half a dozen glasses of whiskey. So, to cut short I've been rendered useless for the night and my breath reeks of a combination of homeless and hungover.
I almost give up on the knob, when the door flings open on its own to reveal a pair of tan brown boots. It strikes me a little later that the boots belong to a person, and I look up like a lost pup with a name tag, which reads as Rufus or a similar crappy name.
A whimper leaves my mouth as I come face to face with a set of wide eyes, gazing at mine with an equal intensity. They flicker below my face once and make me realise that I'm not wearing a shirt. As far as I remember, it was last hanging on a lean frame that required something more than clear vodka to keep from burning down to a skeleton with lavender lips.
It might be the alcohol talking, but I feel her eyes analysing me with a sparking curiosity, instead of just staring back at me. Not only that, but there is something different about her in all entirety. She has a black winter coat on in the breezy weather of July, coupled with a matching pair of navy boyfriend jeans, drooping at the hem yet clinging to her hips. Her hair is falling down to the belt of her coat, sprawled out like a stream of cocoa. Her pale lips are pursed together....
"The proximity between us is too close, and if you are waiting for me to faze out... well, that just won't happen." She whispers, visibly shaky, putting a halt to my impromptu poetry.
I'm not even able to react to it until she blinks at me several times and furrows her plump face. "Sorry ma'am, I thought this was my room," my feet struggle getting off the floor, contemplating if it's as cold that I can't spend the night out here.
