Here

I just sent off my blockmates to the patient, humming cabs of the night, awaiting their journey off to the frenzy that was the F. Club. I was told “F” stood for “Fashion”, but who knows.

The door to XY’s room was a curtain of heat and the thick stench of alcohol with yesterday’s sweat. Messy glasses of expensive liquor mixed with convenience-store fruit juice sat around the room’s various shelves, surfaces and floor tiles that weren’t already taken up by the 8 people crammed into the room.

I settled into the corner and let my senses soak up whatever was around; the girls, some of which showing only the whites of their eyes, were falling onto the shoulders of the bewildered but smirking males next to them; the guitar-players strumming off-tempo and belting out terrible lyrics; feet stumbling about, sharply kicking whiskey glasses along the floor…

The haze of being the only sober person in the room, as I repeatedly raised my palm to politely refuse the glasses pushed in my direction, seemed very similar to that of being the only drunk in the room. It wasn’t particularly testing or anything, just that I felt further estranged from this bundle of fellas which I was already nervous about. I wonder what Zach would’ve done.

As the cabs drove off into the night, only the stench of alcohol, and I, remained.

I looked at the tiny, bleeding nick on my finger from the pill’s blister pack, and hoped it was all worth it.