The Protector

II

Every little girl imagines their eighteenth birthday as this grand extravagant party where they are the centre of attention all day. They'll wear a big beautiful dress, a tiara and will receive hundreds of compliments or gifts.

For some bizarre reason, I once imagined that for myself too. We'd decorate the house. My mum would bake a delicious cake. My Dad would spoil me rotten. My brother's would treat me like a princess. Except, I was never the kind of person who would actually enjoy being pampered in such a way.

Instead, it's just like any normal outing. For four years, I've spent the night before my birthday with a drink in my hand so that I could enter the day of my birth drunk as a skunk. It's perfect since the day is forever going to be a curse.

Due to my friends actually giving a toss about their education, they typically set a limit to their drinking habits. Birthdays are the only exception. Myself, I don't have a standard to upkeep, so I don't care how much I get through. Besides, my tolerance is obscenely high but they have kidney's to protect.

There's a difference between us and normal teenagers: we've been poisoning our organs with liquor and hardcore drugs for years already while others only experiment when they're close to legal age. It's possible we've even built up an immunity to most of the shit we've put ourselves through.

Halestorm begins to scream through the speakers as I make my way to the bar. Having to raise my hand to shield my eyes from the deranged lights, my mood declines at the sight of the queue. It's snaking around in an odd shape in order to control the size, it's already taken up over a quarter of the club floor. The wait is longer than my limited patience can handle.

My thoughts soon wander to the cluster of females occupying our usual table at the edge of the sweaty space. I don't like to leave them alone for too long when they've been chucking back tequila like it's the remedy to life. Men like to try pushing their luck at the sight of them and their lack of inhibitions when drunk.

I've been with them long enough to remember the unique beauty of each woman, so I understand why men are drawn to them. Their immaculate allure is forever embedded in my mind from the number of years I've plagued their livelihood.

Each one was gifted with astounding Disney princess-like hair which constantly tumbles down their backs as though they share Rapunzel's genetics. One guy has taken a particular interest in Kira's peach highlights, his fingers running through them. Judging by her tight smile, she doesn't approve of his touch.

Straightening my back, I turn my body towards the disgusting male, narrowing my eyes until he feels it burn through his skin like an iron poker. One glance at my unspoken death threat, he shuffles away to another part of the room. If he goes near her again, I will end his miserable existence.

Ashley is the only one of the four to maintain her natural curls. The other three wake up early every morning to torment their hair with controlled heat that sizzles away any ringlet they possess. It's as though their curls are the spawns of satan. Her finger's are currently twirling one of the locks as she laughs with Lola.

Annoyingly my boyfriend is standing alongside them, seemingly oblivious to the previous harassment. For such an athletic and confident guy, he doesn't seem to care about anyone but himself and me. I suppose I should find it endearing in some ways, but it's actually quite the opposite.

He's not that different from a child who's afraid of losing their mother in a shopping centre, the ones who practically glue themselves to her arm. He's insufferably clingy. It's not that I'd have a problem with a partner who wants constant affection and attention, but he has this way of making it incredibly uncomfortable. He has this habit of messaging me throughout the day, asking me where I am, who I'm with, and what I'm doing.