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After The "Party"

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1 After The "Party" on Sun Jun 07, 2015 2:32 am

Lance walked down the rest of the pathway towards the dormitory with the others almost completely silent. He stared at the mask in his hands with the roman numeral II emblazoned on top. His mind wandered back to what happened to him within the walls of that horrid place and he started feeling the tears and fear coming back to him. The adrenaline was wearing thin now, and the gravity of the situation came rolling back. He knew it was pointless to feel this fear - he was nowhere near the source and all the danger was momentarily gone, but there is no logic that can be applied to pain like this. He clenched his open hand into a fist and bit his lip hard, trying to push the overt physical reactions to the background and avoid detection. The trip back to the dorms couldn't end fast enough.

Once back to the dormitory Lance stopped for no person, listened to no discussion, and went straight to his room. He climbed some inconsequential number of stairs, walked through his doorway, and went straight to the computer desk. He pulled open a drawer, reached in, grabbed hold of the cool glass of a bottle, and slumped against a wall such that a person walking past his room could not openly see. He looked at the label, some middle-of-the-road vodka of little known repute. He twisted the cap off of the bottle, brought it to his lips, and drank deeply. If there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that he didn't want to remember what the hell had just happened to him.

"Oh look, girls, there's our man!" that insufferable laughter echoed in his head as he took another draw from the bottle. Tears were welling up in his eyes and he had to swallow hard to cut off the tightness in his throat and ease that painful memory.

"He looks good enough to eat, don't you think, Misha?" He clenched his eyes shut. Why did this have to come back now of all moments? Why did that damn shadow have to throw him face-first back into the worst memory he had ever had the displeasure of creating? Another shot.

"We better grab him before someone else does..." He could hear that damn music, both from the club and from his old high school. He heard his own screaming and before he knew it a sob tore out of him. He pulled his legs up closer to himself and rested his head on his knees, shaking and sobbing, the bottle set next to him and no longer getting the attention he wanted to give it. The damage was already done.

The damage was still coming.

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