yaythisisavailable
March 4th, 2014, 03:03 PM
Here is the first chapter of a story my friend and I are writing. Neither one of us is into partying, so we are writing from an outsider's perspective. Let me know if this is realistic and if there is anything you should change.
Sloane Blake
There’s not much to say about high school parties. They’re full of horny some-teen year olds looking for a “good time.” I can’t say I’m any different, but I like to think I am. I like to think I’m partying for personal reasons, taking shots to drown my pain, smoking plants to distract my mind.
It’s stupid, really, the things I do to keep my thoughts away from home. Unfortunately, my distractions do nothing but piss off my parents. I like to think my mom isn’t crying about me, to think they’re oblivious to my actions.
Good one, Sloane, I think as I tilt my head back, providing a straight chute for another shot of vodka. Fiery, raw, and fast, it burns down my throat. I’m thirsty, so thirsty, but I’m not done with the alcohol. I can still think through the shitty music and dewy air.
“Damn!” Taggart, the preacher’s kid, exclaims and slams his shot glass down on the table. He whips his head around, an obvious buzz taking hold. Sweaty curls sling perspiration in my direction, and I brush the wetness away with a heavy hand.
Waterlogged limbs raise another shot to my mouth. Numb lips feel for the rim, but they don’t register. I dump an entire shot onto my shirt.
“Shit,” I say. My tongue is a block of lead.
“I think you’re done, Sloane,” the guy pouring the drinks tells me. I don’t recognize his stupid face because the room is foggy.
Am I on a boat? I stand up; my legs wobble from the waves beating on the sides of the cabin. A big one hits, and I stumble forward and fall into a pair of firm, tattooed arms.
“Hey,” he yells over the shitty music.
“Hey,” I reply, straightening my clothes.
“Do you want to dance?” He asks. I eye him suspiciously, wondering how we are going to dance when there is an obvious earthquake shaking the room. Just do it, I tell myself.
”Okay,” I reply. He takes my hand and pulls me into the middle of the room. With a sea of people rubbing against me, it’s difficult to keep my footing. Waves of water, waves of people, they’re the same when you’re drunk.
I’m not sure if it’s the lighting or if it’s the vodka making the room dark and foggy, but it supplies a phantasmagoric feeling, and I love it. I love the effervescence of the disco ball scintillating on the walls. I love the cloud of sweat invading the air and the pair of sensual hands on my hips. I hate the shitty music.
Who made this playlist?
Sleeves, my dance partner, grinds his pelvis against my butt. His hands inch up my waist and grab at my chest, but I brush him away. As if magnetic, his paws return. This time, I slap them away and turn to face him.
Another wave hits, and my knees wobble, but I grab his arm for support. He takes my touch as a signal to keep dancing, but I push him off of me.
“Fuck off!” I yell. It’s barely audible above the voices and the music.
“Bitch,” he mutters and melts into the ocean. I fix my shirt, making sure I am fully covered before leaving the dance floor. Walking in a straight line proves to be extremely difficult, and I use the dancers for support.
By the time I’m back in the kitchen, where the drinking is most prominent, Grey Taggart is standing on the kitchen counter, unbuttoning his shirt in a drunken male striptease.
For my own amusement, I take a seat on a bar stool and watch as he rips off his Oxford. Due to his choice in clothing, I assume his parents don’t know he’s here. He’s dressed for church. Poor kid, I think, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
Before he can unbuckle his belt, several of his buddies haul him off of the counter and drag him out of the room. He immediately passes out in their arms. He needs to learn to how hold his alcohol.
. . .
The cold air calms the storm enough for smooth sailing. Half skipping, half tripping, I make my way to the bus station several blocks away. The atmosphere is so surreal. The stars are brighter than the disco ball, and the chirping of the crickets is better than the music.
I can feel my buzz wearing off.
I feel like salad dressing, I think. The kind made out of oil and vinegar. It was all mixed up inside, but now it’s starting to separate.
The cracks in the sidewalk are miles apart, and I try to jump from one to the next. Each hop breaks my mother’s back. From the apartment party to the nearest bus stop is a hundred and fifty-six cracks. It might be two hundred and fifty-six. I can’t remember. I just know my mom is lying in bed with a shattered spine.
. . .
“Are you drunk?” He demands. Broken caterpillars for eyebrows, tomatoes for a face, my father is quite attractive when he is angry. His nostrils are big enough to fit a family of four.
“Why would you ever think that?” I poke his face, trying to be cute, but he grabs my wrist and squeezes.
“You smell like alcohol, and it’s three in the morning,” he spits. This is the second time I’ve been splashed with bodily fluids tonight.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I reply and pull my wrist. His grip tightens.
“You’re mom and I have been worried sick about you,” he says. His voice is growing in both volume and pitch. If he gets any louder, the windows might shatter.
“I didn’t ask you to wait up for me,” I tell him matter-of-factly.
“Don’t speak to me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like we’re equal,” he growls. I’m afraid my wrist is going to shatter.
“Let go of me,” I say.
“No.”
“Please, just let go.”
“No!”
His fingernails are growing into long, blackened talons, digging holes into my arm. I scream with my raw, whiskey burned throat and push him away.
“Let go! Let go! Let go!” I cry.
“Listen to me!” He demands and shakes me violently. My mother is quiet during all of this. I hope your back is broken, I think.
My head lolls from side to side, too drunk to make crisp movements. Tears leak out of my eyes, and I suddenly feel nauseated. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of his fists reel back, gathering potential energy for a solid punch. His college ring rockets into my face and snaps my neck to the other side.
“Stop!” Mother Dear screams, leaps off of the couch and tries to pull him off of me, but he shoves her away.
I’m expecting another hit. I’m expecting him to knock the drunkenness right out of me, beat an apology from my lips. Instead, he slings me on the floor and kicks my bag in my direction.
“You have ten minutes to pack up your stuff and get out,” he says quietly, wiping his bloodied knuckles on his shirt. Without another word, he turns away and stalks into the kitchen. Cabinets bang and utensils clank as he makes himself a sandwich. Beating your daughter must me hard work.
“You should probably get your things,” mom says shakily. She tries to help me up, but I recoil from her touch and pull myself off of the living room floor.
“Get away from me,” I say and storm into my bedroom. Blue walls, white sheets, and dozens of books greet me. This haven is no longer mine. I dig a duffel bag out of my closet, strip the clothes from their hangers, and stuff them into the bag. Due to my minimalistic tendencies, everything fits.
Once my dresser drawers are empty, and my bag is zipped, I heft the strap over my shoulder and grab my backpack. I leave the lights on, tricking my mind into believing I’ll come back tomorrow to turn them off. This is it. There are no more second chances.
Sloane Blake
There’s not much to say about high school parties. They’re full of horny some-teen year olds looking for a “good time.” I can’t say I’m any different, but I like to think I am. I like to think I’m partying for personal reasons, taking shots to drown my pain, smoking plants to distract my mind.
It’s stupid, really, the things I do to keep my thoughts away from home. Unfortunately, my distractions do nothing but piss off my parents. I like to think my mom isn’t crying about me, to think they’re oblivious to my actions.
Good one, Sloane, I think as I tilt my head back, providing a straight chute for another shot of vodka. Fiery, raw, and fast, it burns down my throat. I’m thirsty, so thirsty, but I’m not done with the alcohol. I can still think through the shitty music and dewy air.
“Damn!” Taggart, the preacher’s kid, exclaims and slams his shot glass down on the table. He whips his head around, an obvious buzz taking hold. Sweaty curls sling perspiration in my direction, and I brush the wetness away with a heavy hand.
Waterlogged limbs raise another shot to my mouth. Numb lips feel for the rim, but they don’t register. I dump an entire shot onto my shirt.
“Shit,” I say. My tongue is a block of lead.
“I think you’re done, Sloane,” the guy pouring the drinks tells me. I don’t recognize his stupid face because the room is foggy.
Am I on a boat? I stand up; my legs wobble from the waves beating on the sides of the cabin. A big one hits, and I stumble forward and fall into a pair of firm, tattooed arms.
“Hey,” he yells over the shitty music.
“Hey,” I reply, straightening my clothes.
“Do you want to dance?” He asks. I eye him suspiciously, wondering how we are going to dance when there is an obvious earthquake shaking the room. Just do it, I tell myself.
”Okay,” I reply. He takes my hand and pulls me into the middle of the room. With a sea of people rubbing against me, it’s difficult to keep my footing. Waves of water, waves of people, they’re the same when you’re drunk.
I’m not sure if it’s the lighting or if it’s the vodka making the room dark and foggy, but it supplies a phantasmagoric feeling, and I love it. I love the effervescence of the disco ball scintillating on the walls. I love the cloud of sweat invading the air and the pair of sensual hands on my hips. I hate the shitty music.
Who made this playlist?
Sleeves, my dance partner, grinds his pelvis against my butt. His hands inch up my waist and grab at my chest, but I brush him away. As if magnetic, his paws return. This time, I slap them away and turn to face him.
Another wave hits, and my knees wobble, but I grab his arm for support. He takes my touch as a signal to keep dancing, but I push him off of me.
“Fuck off!” I yell. It’s barely audible above the voices and the music.
“Bitch,” he mutters and melts into the ocean. I fix my shirt, making sure I am fully covered before leaving the dance floor. Walking in a straight line proves to be extremely difficult, and I use the dancers for support.
By the time I’m back in the kitchen, where the drinking is most prominent, Grey Taggart is standing on the kitchen counter, unbuttoning his shirt in a drunken male striptease.
For my own amusement, I take a seat on a bar stool and watch as he rips off his Oxford. Due to his choice in clothing, I assume his parents don’t know he’s here. He’s dressed for church. Poor kid, I think, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
Before he can unbuckle his belt, several of his buddies haul him off of the counter and drag him out of the room. He immediately passes out in their arms. He needs to learn to how hold his alcohol.
. . .
The cold air calms the storm enough for smooth sailing. Half skipping, half tripping, I make my way to the bus station several blocks away. The atmosphere is so surreal. The stars are brighter than the disco ball, and the chirping of the crickets is better than the music.
I can feel my buzz wearing off.
I feel like salad dressing, I think. The kind made out of oil and vinegar. It was all mixed up inside, but now it’s starting to separate.
The cracks in the sidewalk are miles apart, and I try to jump from one to the next. Each hop breaks my mother’s back. From the apartment party to the nearest bus stop is a hundred and fifty-six cracks. It might be two hundred and fifty-six. I can’t remember. I just know my mom is lying in bed with a shattered spine.
. . .
“Are you drunk?” He demands. Broken caterpillars for eyebrows, tomatoes for a face, my father is quite attractive when he is angry. His nostrils are big enough to fit a family of four.
“Why would you ever think that?” I poke his face, trying to be cute, but he grabs my wrist and squeezes.
“You smell like alcohol, and it’s three in the morning,” he spits. This is the second time I’ve been splashed with bodily fluids tonight.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I reply and pull my wrist. His grip tightens.
“You’re mom and I have been worried sick about you,” he says. His voice is growing in both volume and pitch. If he gets any louder, the windows might shatter.
“I didn’t ask you to wait up for me,” I tell him matter-of-factly.
“Don’t speak to me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like we’re equal,” he growls. I’m afraid my wrist is going to shatter.
“Let go of me,” I say.
“No.”
“Please, just let go.”
“No!”
His fingernails are growing into long, blackened talons, digging holes into my arm. I scream with my raw, whiskey burned throat and push him away.
“Let go! Let go! Let go!” I cry.
“Listen to me!” He demands and shakes me violently. My mother is quiet during all of this. I hope your back is broken, I think.
My head lolls from side to side, too drunk to make crisp movements. Tears leak out of my eyes, and I suddenly feel nauseated. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of his fists reel back, gathering potential energy for a solid punch. His college ring rockets into my face and snaps my neck to the other side.
“Stop!” Mother Dear screams, leaps off of the couch and tries to pull him off of me, but he shoves her away.
I’m expecting another hit. I’m expecting him to knock the drunkenness right out of me, beat an apology from my lips. Instead, he slings me on the floor and kicks my bag in my direction.
“You have ten minutes to pack up your stuff and get out,” he says quietly, wiping his bloodied knuckles on his shirt. Without another word, he turns away and stalks into the kitchen. Cabinets bang and utensils clank as he makes himself a sandwich. Beating your daughter must me hard work.
“You should probably get your things,” mom says shakily. She tries to help me up, but I recoil from her touch and pull myself off of the living room floor.
“Get away from me,” I say and storm into my bedroom. Blue walls, white sheets, and dozens of books greet me. This haven is no longer mine. I dig a duffel bag out of my closet, strip the clothes from their hangers, and stuff them into the bag. Due to my minimalistic tendencies, everything fits.
Once my dresser drawers are empty, and my bag is zipped, I heft the strap over my shoulder and grab my backpack. I leave the lights on, tricking my mind into believing I’ll come back tomorrow to turn them off. This is it. There are no more second chances.