𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗩𝗼𝗶𝗰𝗲 (𝙵𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝙱𝚡𝙱)

Track 52 | 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹 𝗜𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝘂𝗱𝗲

➤ ➤ ➤

The air looked gritty and dull. Like an old movie from the 80s, shot on film. 

It felt that way, too. It was as if the atmosphere, floating around my head, was contaminated with some sort of soot or ash. The lights of the party—the phone flashes, the dim lamps, the overhead bulbs, the flickering neon, the humming fluorescent—appeared hazy in the billowing smoke escaping my muzzle, the end of a blunt in between my fingers burning a warm orange, disobeying the yellow-green hue of the living room. Every inch of my surroundings looked as though it'd been doused heavily in chlorine.

I handed the smoking cigar away to whoever wanted it next, grasping at the edge of the cushion beneath my legs. The nylon material felt jagged and rough against my fingertips, my claws getting caught in the sewn fibers. I rested my head back against the couch, feeling the solid surface make a dent in the back of my neck.

I stared at the ceiling, watching colorful projections dance like wispy spirits against the plaster. I rolled my head to the right, seeing Torrence taking a hit from the blunt I'd just handed him. I rolled my head to the left, seeing Rian staring at his phone, the LED screen illuminating his face. I looked dead ahead, seeing my fellow classmates pass the joint around like a game of hot potato. I looked straight down at the coffee table, smack-dab in the center of the circle of various chairs, couches, and recliners, seeing five—no, six—no, seven empty shot glasses, cleared to the bone.

My eyes rotated around the room. The couch that Torrence, Rian, and I sat on extended outwardly in a sort of semi-circle fashion, with Andrew, Jaden, and some random dude I'd never met before (named Thomas, I believe) seated in chairs acquired from different areas of the house, directly across the coffee table from us. Resting on a bean bag in between Torrence and Thomas was silent, awkward Maisie, connecting the two semi-circles and bringing the ring of seats to a complete shape. She wasn't smoking nor drinking—she just sat there with her hands clasped together and in her lap, staring at the carpeted floor. It looked like she just didn't know where else to go. Sort of like how I felt right now.

I called this the 'living room', when in actuality, it appeared as though the whole house was the living room. The kitchen, the dining room, the TV room, all fused together into one large living room. The area where me and the other stoners (and Maisie) resided was just one section of a large open space—no wonder Lizzy liked to throw parties here. 

Our zone here was a quieter one, but that did not mean it was quiet, not at all. The raging music coming from the 'dance floor' and the various shouting voices echoing from the crowds of moving bodies did nothing to ease the volume of the room. Over yonder, a sea of teenagers, letting loose, rolling their heads, whipping their hair, reaching out and touching other bodies—and at the center of it all, Arizona.

Not even the high could prevent my eyes from focusing directly on him. I leaned forward and squinted my eyes, getting a clearer view of him. There was this thing about him, this electric energy, that once you catch wind of his presence, you never want to look away. It's impossible to ignore it. 

He danced like no one's ever danced before. He danced like it was the first time he'd ever danced in his life. He danced like dancing was the only reason he was alive. He danced like he was free, he danced like it was fulfillment, he danced like it was sex. 

I couldn't take my eyes off of him. The way he touched himself, grabbing at his shoulders, grabbing at his neck, swaying his hips from side to side, his hair getting in his eyes, his fangs piercing through his lips; his gaping jaw, breathing in the smoke-drenched air like it was the last breath he'd ever take in his life. There was pure lust in his eyes, his body. In his fingers, his knees, his waist, his arms, his tail. Every inch of him was seeping in lust, sweat, and fucking sex.