Something stupid

Night air. Fresh frost in my throat. I’m sucking in breaths like I’m choking, lining my lungs with that weird, weightless chill you can only inhale in the dark. My bones are shaking in my skin, still trying to dance with the beating heart of the house party I’ve abandoned. I’m writhing against myself because my head knows I’m better when I’m out of the kitchen, through the red front door, down on the steps, hoodie sleeves over my knuckles, almost sober, fine. Alright. I’m alright.

I’m laughing. Cracked and drunk and wheezing. If you were me, you’d be laughing at yourself. This sad buzzcut princess in her red SuperDry menswear, sipping on lukewarm water from a plastic chalice. I’m sulking on a doorstep over something stupid and itching for another shot of Aldi vodka. Absolute life of the party.

I’m the worst guest going. My palms press against my greasy face. There’s blood under my nails, drying in black, crusty rings. I must’ve cut myself when I smashed that Budweiser against the kitchen counter.

I want another drink. Can’t go back inside, though, not when there’s a bombsite of broken glass around the breakfast bar. I should’ve stopped, refocused, let the red haze bleed out – maybe got a dustpan and brush – but I was too busy manufacturing shock. Shock that breaking other people’s shit is something I’m capable of.

I guess I knew I could do it. Full intention, full force. Just a hard glare, a glass bottle, enough noise to make my girl listen to me. My words got lost under hers, crushing and compressing me until I had to do something. I had to be louder.

My cheeks are wet, just like hers were. Like her palms pressed to the glass minefield, running red between her fingers.