bare [h.s.]

Helpless

A drunken Elijah laughs obnoxiously beside me with two strange men, the strong odor of liquor from his breath nauseating to my senses. His arm seems permanently glued to my shoulder, and every time I squirm underneath his hold, it only becomes tighter.

I cautiously take few sips of water
from my cup, eyeing Harry from
across the room.
He stands with one arm resting
against the countertop in the kitchen, smiling and chatting with others surrounding him.
Only a few times does he glance over at me, placed on the couch in the arms of another man.
No longer is this party fun;
I feel trapped and suffocated
in the crowded space.

"Where are you going?" Elijah asks
into his filled cup, his words a
slurred mess.

"I need air," I respond quietly,
shaking his grip off as I stand from
the couch.
I push my way through the crowd,
taking in a long breath when I reach the kitchen.

"Lover boy is already bored of you?"
Harry asks without looking at me.
I fold my arms across my chest,
stepping slowly past him.
The strangers in the room
silently walk out, and I'm thankful
for it.

"Would you stop being so cold?"
I huff, kneeling over the cooler
filled with various beverages.
My fingers flinch at the frigid touch as I graze over the selection,
my hand stopping at a bronze bottle.

"I thought you didn't drink."

"I need something to get me through the night," I state simply, "I can't do this sober."

Harry shrugs slightly, leaning his
weight against the counter.
"Good luck," he mumbles,
his hand swirling small ice cubes
around in his cup.

"Harry, stop avoiding me. I don't
want him to be here either."

"I think it's time you choose."
He looks up for the first time,
his features hard and serious.
I don't move or speak in that
moment, only tilt my head back
and let the intoxicating liquid
slid down my throat.
The burning sensation it produces
as it passes my lips sets my
senses ablaze, and I smile
at the new feeling in spite of myself.

"It's you. It'll always be you but
I can't act on it. I can't and it's
killing me; destroying me," I want to cry, to sob into his chest until there are no more tears left in me, but rather I drink some more and laugh at myself. "So, Mr. Styles, I bid you a goodnight."

He doesn't say anything;
he stands with his arms
crossed and nods me away,
thinking about how ridiculous I am. It pains me to walk away and
know that he won't do anything
to stop me.

"You're back," Elijah grins,
his eyelids fighting to stay open.
He pats his hand on the cushion
beside him for me to sit, and I do.
"I missed you so much."

I watch Harry quietly, observing
his every move and hating myself
for it. And I watch as he continues
to laugh and talk and enjoy himself, not giving a care in the world about me.

"How about we head upstairs?" Elijah insists, brushing strands of
hair from my neck and kissing
the raw flesh. I close my eyes,
focusing on the rapid beating of
my heart and nod against his
lips.

He takes my hand and guides us
through the maze of people,
and I swear I see Harry watch us
leave. But I shouldn't care,
because he wouldn't stop me from
making this bad decision anyway.

Elijah opens several doors once
we reach the hallway, looking
for a room that a bed occupies.
My head begins to pound
and the responsible girl inside of me begs for me to return to the party;
to safety and Harry.
But this new girl leads me into
the bedroom I'm certain belongs to Harry, and sits me down against his bed. I breathe in his familiar scent, closing my eyes and imagining him sitting beside me.

"Elijah," I muse, my fingers dancing along Harry's mattress,
"I don't want to do anything drastic."
His wicked eyes trail down my body as the faint clicking of the lock on the door fills my ears.
And suddenly I'm brought back to
the day when I was trapped inside
his home, being thrown around in
his grip.
I frown at the thought, shaking it
away as the liquor takes over
my mind.

"Elijah, I don't feel good."
And I can't decide if it's the alcohol
making me feel nauseous or
the dreaded feeling of being
locked in a room with Elijah.

"Here, this will make you feel better," he places his drink in my hand and I peer up at him with blurred vision.

He climbs on top of my body
that suddenly feels small underneath his own, and kisses along my jawbone, down to my neck. I push on his chest with one hand, the other gripping onto the beer bottle.

"I don't want to do this," I say over and over again, frustrated that my
words are not making him stop.
He takes the bottle in his own hands and tilts it slightly to reach my lips.

"Drink, baby," He coos, forcing
the bottle into my mouth. "It'll make you fun."

The liquid flows heavily down my
throat; my pleas for him to stop
being drowned out.
A wave of panic fills my body
and the awful feeling of helplessness crowds my thoughts.
But I continue to do as he says
and allow the liquor to enter my bloodstream.

And I drink to feel something;
something other than this terrible,
horrible feeling.
And as his hands claw at my clothes,
I drink to feel nothing.