I never imagined that darkness could feel this good. It is safe; comforting. Peaceful. Between the racing of my heart and vague consciousness prodding at my brain, I feel disoriented but relaxed in a way I cannot explain. But my conscious is blurred; I see nothing right now. A faint buzz sparkles somewhere in the back of my head and old, 20's music is filling the room with despair.
Shuddering with uncertainty and fighting against the drumming of my heart, I roll my head around to regain my composure, quickly regreting it when the music overpowers my will to get up. Said music is starting to get to my head, which I realize is right next to a pool of vomit. The stench is unbearable. Whoever vomitted near me must have indigested something toxic to the human body. It's disgusting. So I take action, lurching myself up - rather abruptly - and taking a good, hard look around me.
Three or four sweaty bodies are sprawled around the disastrous living room like forgotten rags. One is a girl; bra hanging off her bust, skirt hiked up to her pale thighs. The others are boys, passed out in their bodies of despair. We are all a sad mess of bodies in despair.
Especially me, who has no business being here. It is pitch black outside. I'm sure it is unremarkably late. With this in mind, I slowly stand to my feet. Unfortunately, my lower body aches, and my knees buckle under me. I'm sent to the floor.
Worthless.
The alcohol drowns my insides and everything feels like it's burning. I tremble, attempting to regain composure. But I fail, allowing my body to press into the fibers of the rough carpet. It smells of piss and old lady skin.
You gotta get home Ron. Get the hell out of this place.
Another song from way back in the day plays as I attempt to stand to my feet one more time. The song mocks me. Its cartoony tempo and lazy voice drags across the room like molasses.
I don't stay out late
Don't care to go
I'm home about eight
Just me and my radio
Ain't misbehavin'
I'm savin' my love for you
My stomach unbuckles a hot rush of fluid as I hunch over, grasping my knees for balance. Everything is disgusting. I have no idea how I'm going to make it out in one piece. No one is around to help me.
Until suddenly, I look up and catch someone staring at me from atop of the hardwood staircase. I don't move, they don't move. I am woefully ashamed of myself. The mystery person continues to glare at me, expression unreadable. My ego fails to keep its cool and I end up vomiting harder. The mystery person continues to stare. The alcohol is finally out.
Soon, I am too, removing myself from the judgment of the mystery person. The cool, crisp autumn air of the night makes it manageable to breath again. My body temperature falls a couple of degrees. I feel amazing that I'm alive. Unsure of anything on top of everything, I stop and try to catch my memory. It's running away from me.
Upon entering the house, there was barely any room for me to catch my breath, which was taken away by the flashing lights and the bodies and the popping of beer bottles.
I was uncomfortable. Everyone bumped carelessly into me and that might have been my hint to leave. But I didn't. I stayed. Downed a few drinks. Danced. Carelessness tainted my evening.
Forget it now. Just try to get home.
I allow the velvety blackness of the night to help me breathe. It draws a moan out of me, a moan of discomfort. Walking again to better my breathing, I start to notice that I'm terribly uncoordinated. It may be the swishing and swaying of the little alcohol left in me, but I ignore it. I keep my mind stable on trotting home to get to a place of peace. And as I embark on this journey to peace, something haunts me.
Why do I feel as if I know that face now?
JL Thompson
