Cliché

chapter 8. drunk brie

TW: MENTIONS OF ASSAULT

I close one eye, pretending to calculate the trajectory or wind force or whatever the hell it's called, and throw the ping pong ball. After bouncing off the table a few times, it lands in the very last cup I have left, declaring me the winner over Brie.

"Yes!"

"No fair!" Brie pouts. "How are you so good? You have to be cheating."

"Nope. You're just bad. Really bad," I tease, glancing over at the full solo cup triangle set up on my side that Brie failed to land a single ping pong ball in. Now that the game's finally over, I hop over to Brie, pulling her along with me through the throngs of people and into the house.

"Where are we going?" She shouts over the music.

"Bathroom! I need to pee!" I yell back.

Brie mutters something under her breath, but nonetheless follows me up the stairs. The second floor is quieter, with only a few black out drunk couples scattered on the floor here and there— but the lack of noise also allows the couples inside the rooms to be heard loud and clear.

I scrunch my nose in distaste. "Why'd the author have to add that detail in?"

"They better not be under sixteen," Brie frowns, shaking her head in disapproval.

"Let's be real," I say as I walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me, "she's probably a horny preteen."

author's note: sorry just had to put in that i am NOT a horny preteen thx

-⚘-

It's weird to me how teen fiction stories never portray characters, especially the protagonist, going to the bathroom. Do they just never need to pee? Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised— they're 'not like other girls'.

But of course, there are exceptions. One of the most popular ones being when an event that furthers the plot is going to occur somewhere near the restrooms.

So, why do I feel you readers watching me right now?

Nothing happens, though. I wipe, stand, flush— still nothing. But you're still reading.

Suspicious.

And then, while I'm washing my hands, the door slams open.

I clearly remember locking it on my way in. What the hell?

A boy, whose only describing words that come to mind are musty, dusty, and crusty, slithers in with strange lustful eyes, slowly closing the door behind him. I watch him warily, unconsciously backing away from him until my back hits the glass shower divider.

Damn it. It's time for the assault scene.

"Hey, hey," I coax, putting my hands out to keep him away from me, "you don't want to do this. This is all the author forcing you. Don't give in."

Instead of listening to me, he licks his bottom lip, walking closer and closer. I force myself to take deep, slow breaths to calm my mind, calculating my next actions and watching for the right timing.

Remember what Dad taught you about self defense.

He lunges towards me.

Now.

I duck under his reach, shoving him into the shower door and dashing away. When I reach the bathroom door, the handle refuses to turn, effectively locking me inside with a now angry potential sexual assaulter.