TW; suicidal thoughts/attempt
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Senior prom. The absolute best night of a teenagers life. Excluding sweet sixteens and wedding days, over many months of detailed preparation, the bank of mom and dad has been ripped open and splashed out on expensive, one-of-a-kind dresses and exquisite suits. The hair, the makeup, the alcohol; all must be to the topmost of notches, and as for the few teachers lucky enough to be invited to the legendary afterparty, it is the one night out of the entire school year where they have every excuse to be a bad influence.
It is to be unforgettable. Unmissable. Special.
Or so I thought.
I can understand Brendon's mysterious need to sweep me off of my feet by making a conspicuously late entrance, but to do such a thing this late into the evening is kind of ridiculous. When you're standing in the middle of someones living room, filled to the brim with wasted teenagers, it's really not that difficult to be surreptitious, which, hypothetically speaking, defeats the object of his plan entirely. Also, it's messing up my plans to whisk him away for some end-of-year, celebratory private time.
"Oh, but Mr. Weekes, you'll have all the time in the world to fuck each other's brains out after tonight." Most of my students (of whom I can't quite believe label themselves daily as "mature, civilised adults"), are unhesitant to grind up against me while they inform me of this very obvious fact. "We're all going to college soon and you're never going to see any of us ever again, so drink our free alcohol and get over it."
Con: Most of our students will be attending college five minutes down the road from the senior high school they've been studying at for the last four years of their lives, so they're not exactly going anywhere, meaning it's highly unlikely that I won't be seeing any of them ever again.
Pro: Though I hate to admit it, I love these tipsy, sex-obsessed kids to bits, so I'm going to have all the time in the world to drink their free alcohol after tonight, too - seriously, who the hell says "no" to free alcohol?
Second Pro: Brendon loves them, too; too much not to turn up at some point within the next half hour.
Second Con: He's still not here, and I'm beginning to doubt very much that he'll show up within the next half hour.
I don't know who's kids house this is, or where their parents are, or if they may have any knowledge whatsoever that this party is being thrown without their consent. The air is muggy. The multi-coloured disco lights stutter, ebbing and bleeding through thick, rolling mist. Dozens of pairs of sneakered feet pound heavily against the beer-soaked floor, squeaking each time they jump and twist and pivot, like the players in a basketball game. A loudspeaker hangs above the arched, open doorway that separates the lounge from the kitchen; it's far too big and far too heavy, and it trembles in time with the thump, thump, thump of the music.
The minutes drag into hours, and as one plastic solo cup full of punch multiplies by at least ten, I'm becoming certain that Brendon has turned his back on me. Again. The truth shouldn't dishearten me anymore. See, where I'm outrageously depressed, this guy Ryan is bright and bubbly and ignores all of life's weighty problems. Where I'm obsessed with my boyfriend to the point where I would rather not live at all than live without him, Ryan understands that everyone needs alone time. And, the most horrible realisation of all, where I would shamelessly fuck sense into him, abuse him in the hopes it will show him how much he hurt me, Ryan... doesn't.
It is the cherry on top. I am the lesser, but not of two evils, as they say. Bless, Ryan probably doesn't even realise what he's doing so wrong. He loves Brendon simply for who he is, flaws and all, and that's all that matters to him. He keeps him safe and warm and welcome in his arms, but will willingly keep his distance when asked.
I can't do any of those things. I can't be anything to Brendon without tearing him apart, and if I'm no good for him, then I'm no good for anyone at all, and it fucking kills me, and I'll be more than happy to sit back and let it.
This is the last time; I'm not going to let him reject me anymore.
Now, where can a guy acquire some pills in this living hell on Earth...?
Upon arriving at the party a few hours ago, I'd spotted a downstairs bathroom at some point during my venture from the front porch to the lounge, no bigger than the average toilet cubicle in a school restroom - the perfect size for a single person to sit comfortably and take a shit in peace, but probably not so for a couple to soundlessly pound each other into oblivion.
Dubiously, I take a deep breath and dart for the kitchen, swooping under locked arms and dodging past students begging for me to dance the night away with them. I duck instinctively as I pass underneath the archway, preparing to protect myself from the shuddering speaker, should it tragically fall. Once safe, I stand up straight and move quickly onward, picking up one of the dozens of precariously placed solo cups abandoned on the kitchen counter. Judging by the intense stench of something - I don't know, medical? - several of them have probably been spiked with some illegal and nasty substance. What a bonus that would be, if I'd picked out one of those.
A minute later, I have successfully managed to hustle myself into the tiny bathroom unnoticed, closing the (terrifyingly unlockable) door behind me. I turn, and am greeted immediately by the friendliest looking medicine cabinet I've ever seen: No lock, no grime, no mirrors, and certainly filled with all the naughty and nice things I could ever need to inflict all degrees of pleasure and pain upon myself.
My fingers are drawn to the unopened bottle of unprescribed Ativan like a magnet.
I pop open the cap expertly, as though I've done this a thousand times before, and pour about half of the white pills into my palm. I frown between my hands - punch, pills, punch, pills - debating whether or not it would really be a good idea to chuck them back right now, in this room - I'd prefer not to crack my head open on the toilet seat on my way to the floor.
And what if he's here? Waiting for me?
I want him to see.
I close my fist and exit the confines of the bathroom. I almost turn back to flush the toilet, to make out that I'd actually been doing my business, but I decide against it; no one would be able to hear it, anyway, and it's not like I've left behind any unpleasant surprises for the next user.
A new plan clear in my mind, I head outside through the front door and scour the house until I find myself standing in the backyard. Here, a sickening amount of students are partying just as hard as the ones inside, some even splashing about in the pool despite the lashing rain, which plasters my suit to my body like the shrivelled skin of a grape. A single tree, ripe with green leaves, provides just enough shelter to satisfy my needs, and this is where I choose to stand. This is the spot I have picked, where I shall put an end to this filthy, lonely life.
I can already taste the dust from the Ativan on my lips when my suicide attempt is interrupted by a cloud of glitter falling from the sky. And I mean that very literally: Pink glitter, spewing from the tree above me, drenching me from hair to shoe. The plastic bowl that had been filled with it clips my shoulder on its way down, and I glance up to see one of my students (Jackson, to be exact), perched on a branch, whispering and apologizing profusely. He doesn't question the handful of pills in my open palm.
Fucking ruined. Typical.
I may have wanted to make my demise public, but not looking like a fucking glowstick.
With that, I fling the pills (and my drink) to the ground and storm back to the house, dragging my feet through ankle deep puddles as I head toward the conveniently placed, wide open french doors that lead back into the miniature concert venue that once used to be a living room. I plough into the crowd, shoulders first in an attempt to break it apart into an accessible path, but the mass is too thick and the soles of my shoes are too wet, and I trip over someone's foot and slip and fall and crash onto my ass.
If this were a festival, the persons closest to me would stop to help me up, or perhaps the band would pause their set mid-song to make sure I don't get trampled on, but this mosh pit doesn't seem to want to part for me. I want to let them flatten me, let the floor mould around my limbs and swallow me whole, a temporary grave, but the anxiety is too much, and I don't want to die like this tonight, my rib cage crushed, jagged bones piercing my internal organs, like a pin to a balloon.
And then, I am pulled to my feet (at least somebody here is sober enough to hear my cries of agony over the shrieks of delight), but the face I am greeted with isn't the face I'd have picked for this rescue mission. Ryan scowls and delivers a hard blow to my face. He's yelling obscenely about something or other, but I'm struggling to hear much of what he's saying over the sloshing of panicked blood cells drowning my brain.
"You motherfucker!" Something along those lines. "How dare you hurt him, how dare you!" I quickly lose count of the number of times he swings his fist. "I will fucking ruin you!" He may well beat me to death, but I don't care. "I swear to God I'll ruin you, just like you ruined him!"
I wonder if he's here now. Is he watching this? I hope so.
The music is no longer playing. The students are no longer dancing. They've opened up a ring for us, yelling and stomping to a silent, repeating rhythm, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" I'm not bleeding out on the floor yet, but I'm sinking lower with every hit, using as much of Ryan's momentum as possible to balance myself, edging away rather than toward him, and the circle opens wider with each backstep I take.
The yelling continues, getting louder, "Fight! Fight! Fight!", even though it isn't really much of a fight, because there's only one person throwing punches. As for his opponent, he's not even trying; he just keeps stumbling backwards as the floor reverberates beneath his twisted feet.
I'm standing under the archway now, and I know this because when I look up, the loudspeaker is hanging right above me. It's still nailed into the wall, but it's practically dangling from its last hinge, straining for its dear, non-existent life, shivering in time with the mass parade of feet hitting the floor.
Stupidly, I pay no mind to it.
Stupidly, I stand my ground.
"Mr. Weekes, watch out!"
The last thing I see is Ryan's sick grin.
The last thing I remember are the clothes Jackson is wearing as he bursts out of the chanting crowd, diving to try and pull me out of the way: His signature pair of ripped denim jeans, and a maroon hoodie that says, "If you're seriously taking time out of your day to read this, then you probably should've stayed in bed."