AGE OF INSANITY

Chapter six ; The incomplete and the overflowing

I downed the twenty-year-old brandy from my shot glass and signalled for another, earning a disbelieving look from the bartender. Her disbelief was warranted, considering I had just downed my eighth shot in as many minutes down my throat as if it were nothing.

I am a cocktail girl. However, on the rare occasions that I had a lot on my mind, I substituted my cocktails for top-shelf brandy. Expensive and well-aged brandy went down smoothly, and I like my drinks smooth. The bartender was still expertly chipping the block of ice into a ball when Monica arrived. She was immaculate as always with her black, off-shoulder, form-hugging dress that had heads turning her way as she gracefully glided across the crowded dance floor towards me. Monica took her sweet time getting to me, soaking up all the attention like the attention whore that she was.

She threw her hands around my neck, pulling me in for a hug. I let her hold me for three seconds before forcible detaching myself from her grip. Her designer perfume was way too sweet for me. She rolled her eyes at me before turning to the bartender and ordering a shot of Remy. She tapped the glass three times, swirled her drink three times, set it back on the table three times before downing her drink. I watched her ritual with barely restrained impatience.

Monica suffered from OCD. Her mother took her to a therapist when she was five after she suffered from a mental breakdown. Her breakdown had been caused by a broken doorknob. She had to turn the knob clockwise three times before she could open it, the broken knob could not be turned, and that somehow set her off. She had a fixation with the number three ergo her black dress, black heels with three straps, and the black clutch bag. She did the ritual of the three every time she had a drink, ate food, or pretty much anything. It had taken a while to get used to it, but I was in no position to judge her.

She ordered an entire bottle of Remy and motioned for me to follow her. I followed her to our usual spot with a bottle of Hennessy. If we were going to drink, we might as well drink properly. She always reserved the same spot, sat in the same chair facing the same direction each time. Because of her OCD, we frequented this club because it was easier for her.

"So I have a surprise for you!" she shouted in my direction, trying to make herself audible above the booming music.

"What is it?" I shouted back, unwilling to lean in and share my personal space in order for us to have a proper conversation. Instead, she rolled her eyes at my obvious reluctance to have a conversation and leaned in close and whispered into my ears.

"Leon is coming." I heard the mockery in her voice, and I did not need to look at her to know she had a manic smile on her face.

As is if summoned, I saw Leon coming towards us. She had somehow grown more beautiful in her absence, and that irked me more than anything. She was arguably the most beautiful one in our group. Her honey-coloured skin had turned a shade lighter. She had braided her hair white which made her abnormally dark pupils appear darker. She had more defined curves than before, her blue jumpsuit complementing each and every curve. She gave me one of her winning smiles, showing off her stupidly perfect teeth, and stretched out her disgustingly perfectly manicured hands.

If it is not yet apparent by now, then ill let you know that I am not very fond of Leon. As it turns out, waking up all tied up in a trunk is not the best experience in the world, and I am not a very forgiving person. It would have been okay, but the idiot went and crashed her car into a store. My refusal to press charges is the only thing that kept her out of jail. That act of kindness had been pushed on me by my mother, who wanted to save her friendship with Leon's mother.

When I said that my friends shared wealth and beauty in common, I forgot to include our shared insanity, clinically speaking, of course. While most girls bonded over boys and flowers and butterflies, our friendship was forged in tears and madness. Beauty and wealth were a camouflage for the flaming pile of shit that was our minds. Susan had social anxiety that often resulted in panic attacks when she was in large crowds. Ruth had chronic depression. If she left her apartment that doubled up as her office, it was considered a good day. There were times when getting her out of bed was impossible. However, it had been over a year since her last suicide attempt, so everybody was content with her progress. With mental illness, each step was equally monumental.