Chapter 1: Lucky as a Gypsy Curse
A few hours later I find myself in the midst of this lovely setting:
Gyrating bodies; 50 cent blasting through speakers; red solo cups with bladder bloating bliss in every hand; girls in next to nothing tank tops; boys ogling the cleavage on display like it's the ticket to fulfillment of the teen dream. If my boobs look hot enough in this shirt, I'll be happy. If I she lets me grab a handful and round the bases I'll be happy.
We're all such products of the MTV generation. What would our parties look like if we hadn't viewed scene after scene of cliché setups on television and in movies?
And I, I am yet another parade of teenage angst and nothingness at this party. Just like everyone else, my heart and life scream so loud for my personal tragedy to be heard that I blend in with the chorus of shrieks around me and become white noise. We all cancel each other out in that way. I'm trying to learn how to be quiet. In a world that tells me to shout to be heard, I'm trying to sit and listen.
Oh, don't think I'm above it. In no way am I above it. It actually makes me smile to think that this equation works for most of the people in this room. Cheap beer + loud music + lowered inhibitions= a good time. Maybe tonight is the magical night I will be included in this formula.
In an attempt to quell my ever present musings and just be, I down another shot. I want to just be content with being in this room, with my supposed peers, enjoying the cheap beer and loud music. Somehow, I don't think standing alone in the kitchen slamming down shot after shot of cheap vodka qualifies as spending quality time with my classmates. But I let this realization shift to the back of my mind and pour another.
Breathe Bella, breathe. Don't pass out; don't vomit, just hold your shit together for once.
The small part of my brain that is still fighting off drunken oblivion is running this internal warning through my mind. I am a fool for thinking I could just have a shot or two and stay in control. There ia a reason I had initiated a drinking embargo, breaking it at a party where none of my real friends have yet to make an appearance is a poor choice.
Already I'm seven shots in, and it's the cheap acidic stuff. This isn't exactly a Grey Goose party, Barton's is more appropriate. I can feel it burning the skin of my esophagus as it goes down; meeting with my ham sandwich from earlier and my stomach juices. This is all mostly mental, but still I picture the party going on in my belly right now.
Who will hold my hair when the dam breaks and this ham-vodka-stomach-acid concoction is free? Glancing around the room to see only a blur of somewhat familiar faces, I find no suitable candidates. I doubt that Jessica Stanley will be up to the task. We haven't had a real conversation in over two years.
Suicide attempts tend to put a damper on small talk about menial shit like the weather. Especially when all there ever is to say here is that it's raining. It's always raining. Call it drizzling, down pouring, showering, misting, sprinkling, trickling, spitting, or dribbling. In the end it's all just rain.
As if on cue, Jess walks over to where I'm leaning against the kitchen counter.
"Bella! It's so good to see you! I haven't talked to you in so long!" Her voice squeaks an octave higher then usual in greeting and her words are slurred. She gives me one of those lean in hugs where we don't really hug but just angle our bodies towards one another and pat forearms. This allows me an unfortunate view of the deodorant trails up and down her too tight black shirt. Her dark massive curls are frizzing like mad, the flyaways twisting in small knots that will hurt like hell to brush out tomorrow. But Jessica is already too drunk to care about small things like tangled hair and deodorant marks. At least, that's what her glazed look says to me.
"Hey." For all my internal observations, this is all that I deem socially appropriate to say out loud to an acquaintance.
Already, I'm looking for a way out of the conversation that's about to happen. Sorry Jessica, I need to go into the living room and do anything but talk to you. I'm wondering why I didn't saw off my left arm and leave it in the other room so I'd have an excuse to not have this chat. Please excuse me Jess, my arm really needs tending to, and the way my blood is squirting from my Cephalic vein doesn't looks so good either. At the moment, nothing smooth is coming to mind, so I'm forced to just stand here and smile my plastic smile at her. Why the hell am I here if I can't even make small talk?
Oblivious to my mental cringe at being in her presence, Jessica prattles on. "I never see you at these things any more. It's been so long since I saw you at a party." Then I watch as her eyes come away from my face, travel down to my bare arms, and take in my scars. I can literally see her eyes widen in her inebriated state as she remembers exactly what event triggered the end to my party going.
This is why I don't cover my wrists. They always provide a way out of surface conversation. When people know you've contemplated your mortality in a real way that is evidenced on your skin, they are less likely to make filler conversation.
I clear my throat and bring my hand up to scratch my face. Jessica shifts her eyes to follow the movement of the jagged scar and therefore looks back up to my eyes.
"Well, it's not usually my scene; too many people. Being suffocated by pungent boy sweat and spilling sticky drinks on myself has kinda lost its appeal. Plus we all know I can't dance." I shrug, dismissing her as I leave the sanctuary of the kitchen before the pity creeps into her eyes and her tone.
Really I should be nicer to Jessica Stanley. Once upon a time when a different Bella walked the earth we were friends. When we were twelve we would share phone calls about the cute boys in our classes and ruminate on how quickly our boobs would grow. You know, all that very important stuff. And Jessica hasn't changed; she kept up her end of the friendship by staying predictable and constant. I am the one who threw a kink in our relationship with the whole slit-wrists-experience.
Before I can dwell on this too long, the sound of an altercation rises above the thumping bass of the music and reaches me. I follow the muffled bellowing and rumbling to one of the bedrooms down the hall way. Peeking around the door frame, I take in a testosterone filled display.
Two guys are squaring off against each other, poised with tense muscles, veins popping as they scream at each other. One I recognize. It's Mike Newton, blonde captain of the baseball team Mike. This is his house that we're partying in. He is providing the setting for all of the teenage revelry that is going down tonight.
Now, how do I explain Mike….. We are all cleverer than others at something. For example, Rosalie is more naturally inclined towards math and academics in general. Jasper definitely has the edge when it comes to creative stuff like art and magic. Emmett is a master of physical energy and body kinesthesia. I am an expert at providing gossip and being a jaded pessimist. And Mike, of course, is very fast at shining apples. He is the human embodiment of a golden retriever, good-natured but not necessarily the brightest crayon in the box.
Thus, it is very odd to see Mike screaming at anyone. His voice is charged as he yells at a bronze haired stranger, who matches him tone for tone in returning bellows. This guy also matches Mike's athletic build muscle for muscle and puts our captain-of-the-sport-team's classic good looks to shame. His plain black t-shirt and worn-in-just-so jeans hug his wonderful form in a way that threatens drool on my part. Even in the middle of a screaming match where he's bulging with rage I can tell that this boy is the most attractive thing I've ever seen. His beat red face contrasts with his deep green eyes as he curses vehemently at Mike. Little drops of saliva are flying in the midst of his anger. I am enticed by all of the passion; he is a burning man before me.
I watch the two go back and forth with the yelling. I'm still too distracted by the strange boy's good looks to determine what exactly they are arguing about. But then I'm able to tear my eyes away from his wonderful form and I see a petite girl with cropped raven hair pinned between them. She is also a stranger. They're each grabbing one of her arms, clutching her like a dog toy stuck in a tug of war between them. Her face is pale, and it looks like she is on the verge of crying. Her mouth is shaped in a small "o" of concern and her green eyes are wide as she glances back and forth between Mike and Mr. Enchanting.
She is the cause of this argument. However, before I gain full use of my ability to discern words or a context to this dispute, the hyped up guys drop the girl and start lunging towards each other.
For some reason, this is the moment my body chooses to overrule my mind and intervene without my permission.
My legs launch me in their midst, and my arms rise in an attempt to hold them back from one another. As if my five foot three inch, hundred and ten pound frame is going to stop the collision of two six foot plus men. Clearly my body is trying to teach me some sort of lesson by throwing itself into this situation. However, there is not enough time to figure out what I'm punishing myself for. All that's there is a fist connecting with my face with the force of a freight train.
And then it all slows down. Time freezes and allows me to take in each expression in the room. Minutes pass and no word is spoken.
Already my lip is swelling to bee sting proportions, overemphasizing my already oversized pout, and my smile is making it hurt worse. The grin I'm sporting is stretching my poor lip across my teeth so the place it split is tearing wider while I laugh. But I don't mind. A deep belly laugh is welling up from within me and pouring out of my bruised mouth.
People always treat me with kid gloves, like I'm too fragile and breakable to stand on my own. Being punched in the face is a nice change of pace. Also, it has sobered me up quite a bit.
Crimson droplets are making their way down my face where they plop plop plop right off my chin to the top of my left breast. The dark moist stain is slowly spreading to cover the last few letters of my band logo. Now I'm a walking billboard for Vampire Weeke rather than my original intent. And my body is still shaking with incomprehensible laughter; my whole being is vibrating with the joy tumbling around in me.
The only depressing fleeting thought that passes through my mind is that now one of my favorite t-shirts has a blood stain, making it socially unacceptable to wear in public ever again.
And then even this thought twists and fuels the laughing fire. I try to start swallowing my blood, which is flowing at a surprising rate, to save my shirt from further damage.
The realization that I'm still in Mike Newton's house washes over me. I look up to see three very confused faces, eyes wide in concern as they watch me sprawled on the bedroom floor in hysterics. Mike's mouth is hanging open in slack jawed surprise.
The tiny girl's mouth is still in her little "o" but now the concerned expression applies to me.
It's funny to think of how our rolls have reversed. I took her spot in the center of this feud, claiming it with my lips, teeth and blood.
And Mr. Enticing is holding up his offending fist and glancing from me to it and back again. The look of horror on his face when he looks at his hand just makes me crack up more. Tears are streaming down my face at this point.
"Fuck. Shit. Fuck." He stutters. Apparently I'm the only one who finds the humor in the way this scene is playing out.
As if his curses have the power to break the bubble surrounding us, more party attendees come crashing through the doorway to see the source of all the commotion. Among the random faces I spot my constituents making their way towards me.
Emmett's monstrous form clears the doorway with only a half inch to spare both from the width of his muscles and his crop of dark curls topping his height along the header of the frame. His blue eyes are hard as glass and his stance clearly displays his fighting nature as he surveys the room.
Emmett has a habit of evaluating social situations on the basis of whether or not he could win in a fight to the death with the parties involved. Right about now I think he has already eliminated Mike as any kind of threat; their previous run-ins having clarified Mike's place in the pecking order.
I watch as his eyes rake over Mr. Entrancing while he assesses him. What's eccentric about Emmett is that even if we weren't in a situation where a punch had just been thrown he would still size up the room this way.
Per usual, Emmett's other half, Rosalie, is not far behind. She situates herself perfectly in the center of the room and places her hands on her hips, effectively taking the I'm-in-charge-of-this-now position. Her flawless blond haired, blue eyed beauty falls second only to her confidence on the list of things you notice about her foremost. With her hair tide off in a side ponytail and the serious look on her face she emanates a don't-fuck-with-me attitude.
To complete the lineup of our broody bunch, my partner in crime and true confidant finally enters the room. This is who I've been waiting for ever since I arrived at this party so I would finally feel comfortable. The Tom Sawyer to my Huck Finn, the Xena to my Gabrielle, the Donna to my Jackie. The Jasper to my Bella.
Jasper, my Jasper, enters following the others. The agile runner's body of my best friend is by my side in less then a blink of an eye, meeting me on the floor. Scooping me up, he piles me on his lap and draws me into his chest so hard I'm nearly crushing the aviator sunglasses he has looped into his plain white t-shirt.
Around me his arms tense, and he has me pulled into him in such a way that I can hardly see what is going on around me in the room anymore. I'm overwhelmed by his inherent scent of sandalwood and all I have view of is Jasper's sandy blond hair in disarray and the stubble on his chin that scratches my forehead.
"Before I kill the wrong person, someone needs to tell me who did this and what the fuck is going on here." Jasper's voice comes out in a threateningly quiet manner. I feel the reverb through his chest as he voices his question.
No one answers Jasper, fearing the steel in his voice.
I try to tell Jasper that he is going to get blood on one of his signature pristine white t-shirts if he doesn't let go a little. However it comes out more like "Mhrrm mmmhr rmmr," because my sore bloody mouth is now pressed into his shoulder. I just keep swallowing down, in gulps now, trying not to bring another article of clothing into ruin tonight.
The realization that he's suffocating me in his attempt to protect me must dawn on him because he slowly draws me away from his chest. His eyes meet mine and I can tell that he's inwardly freaking out over the state my face is in.
So I smile. I let loose a huge all-face-encompassing smile in order to comfort my best friend and let him know I'm okay. Really, because I am. It's not like anyone dies from a split lip and a bruised jaw. I just hope there's not a lot of blood spread across my pearly whites. Besides, with the alcohol coursing through my veins I can barely feel the throbbing.
When this is not enough, I try words. "Jasper, this is perhaps the best party I've ever been to. I've only been her for an hour but I'm already seven shots in and I managed to get punched in the face." I watch as his face relaxes infinitesimally at hearing my voice.
Jasper releases the breath he was holding. "Shit Bella, you broke the drinking embargo without me? Can't I let you go anywhere alone?"
"Bastard! Don't ruin what is for sure to be a memorable evening with your doubts of my party prowess." I wink, and Jasper laughs.
This, this is how in sync we are. I can move Jasper from death threats to laughter with a few words and thankfully it's reciprocal. We are the anti-venom to each others snakebites.
Slowly, Jasper brings me to a standing position and lets me out of his death grip. Still he leaves his hand grasping my elbow to keep me steady. No one needs a clumsy Bella falling incident as icing on this cake.
I turn and take in all the faces in the room. There are too many people here to make me feel comfortable, but I know that some sort of statement or explanation is warranted after the absurdity that has been the last few minutes.
Clearing my throat and swallowing the bloody spit concoction that has nested there, I address the crowd, "Um, well everybody, let's just chalk all this up to a ridiculous inebriated experience. You know the usual Forks party happenings; people punching, people laughing, people threatening lives. For those of you who aren't drunk, I recommend you get to drinking."
I clap my hands once and wave the crowd away. Rosalie swoops in and closes the bedroom door leaving only my friends, Mike, and the two strangers.
Just then, the gurgling in my tummy starts. My stomach is unwilling to tolerate another swallow of blood infused spit on my quest to remain vomit free. At last the belly flip I was expecting earlier today makes an appearance.
Apparently my half digested ham sandwich and my blood have brought it to blows in my belly, and I'm going to hurl.
I grab Jasper's forearm and direct myself to the house plant in the corner where I promptly let loose the hell storm from within. I vaguely feel him grabbing hold of my hair to save it from the oncoming mess. The way the leaves feel against my cheek makes me think they are artificial. Everything comes raging through my mouth in waves, and with the copper blood taste mixed in it feels as if there is more to this then food. Like there might be organs in the mix. The mental image of leaving my spleen in the pot of this god awful plastic umbrella tree makes the retching increase ten fold. Airing my entrails through my mouth; that's what I'm picturing.
Finally, my stomach has emptied itself of its disgusting brew and I collapse back against Jasper's knees. He reaches down to pick me off the ground, because even though I just spewed he is still the beans to my burrito.
The back of my hand does not have the magic ability to erase my bad breath or dissolve any vomit chunks still in my teeth, but it is all I have to work with here. After some futile wiping, I look down at my hand to see it covered in blood, my blood, sticky and warm.
My vision is shrinking while the room turns grey, and I am no longer in it.
A/N: What makes you faint?