About Us (all of us #2)

O N E

J O S E L Y N

Dead.

"This is what I get for being irresponsible..." I mutter at the black screen in my hand. I'm only halfway drunk at this point, the buzz I left with is wearing off quickly the farther I stumble. "That's what I am. An irresponsible drunk, walking barefoot in the middle of...absolutely no where."

I'm tiptoeing on gravel, my head turned up at each street light I walk beneath, watching the moths move in a swirling dance within the rays of yellow light above me.

The air feels perfect tonight. Like a warm hug whenever the breeze blows in.

I don't do this often.

Just once every weekend, either Friday or Saturday, but never both. Mom says I have a problem, and ever since I hit twenty, she nags at me about my poor decision making and tendency to walk barefoot on sidewalks until they end.

Even though she knows I know better.

I know I know better, but I still can't stop.

Something about this area is familiar, if I hadn't indulged in so much alcohol and a pinch too much of some guys space cake, maybe I would know where I was. Or at least have an idea.

My heels hit the backs of my knees, dangling from my fist by the straps.

Who knew I'd become this girl?

I was always overly sheltered, too naive for my own good. I trusted anyone who smiled at me, and even the ones who didn't.

Fell in love with those ones in particular.

But I suppose had they shown their teeth, they couldn't have hidden their fangs from me.

Not like it made a difference. Even after they'd bitten into me, I still held my arm out, shut my eyes, and gladly took it. I took all of it.

The loud honking horn of a car zooming by should startle me, but instead I just chuckle and veer out of the street in a stumble that almost results in me kissing the concrete.

I need to get home before my phone isn't the only thing that's died tonight.

Mom would be pissed if I died. Especially in a dress like this.

The sidewalk begins again and I jump up on the curb like the street is lava, practicing walking in a straight line, imagining the edge is a balance beam.

Good thing I don't have a car. I'd surely have tried to drive home in this state, and my straight line is shit.

The block I'm approaching is lined with shops, their dark windows and lifeless parking lots making it feel like I'm possibly the only one around.

But then I come across a lot with a few parked cars, figuring someone must be in the building.

Before I can make the quick decision to go inside and ask for a charger, the door flies open. Out comes a tall man with a messy bun in a black button down, sleeves rolled, sifting through a mess of keys.

"Later," he shouts on the edge of a laugh right before the door clangs closed.

But this isn't just any man with a messy bun leaving a bar.

It's the man with the messy bun leaving a bar. The same man that haunted my dreams for the past six years of my life. The same man I have to keep from ogling at during parties at my brother's house.

"G-Gio?" I scurry over to him, totally unsure of why I'm making myself known like this. Sober me would've hid in the alley way I just passed, but sober me would also be home and in bed and not making rash decisions at two in the morning. "Giovanni?"