Picture This

You're at a party. There's a girl sitting on a couch by herself, a plastic cup full of god knows what in her hand. She's wearing lace up boots that come to her knees, black fishnet stockings, a short skirt, a tight top that's been cut too low, pounds of black eyeliner, dark lipstick and her hair loose around her bare shoulders. Her legs are crossed and her eyes are flitting around the room. She's sitting up straight, but she doesn't seem uptight. It's more of a graceful act to not let her back touch the couch. Music is blaring and everything is flashing. People are dancing, people are grinding, people are kissing, people are getting high. But this girl, she's just sitting there, a plastic cup in her hand and her eyelids heavy with a sort of sensual glow, or maybe just made up to look that way.

Oh, but now there is something new. A boy is walking up to her, pushing his way past the couples and stopping before the girl wearing too much of everything and not enough of anything. He bends slightly, his lips moving in time with the beat of the music. She leans forward, barely interested, but listening intently all the same. He nods. She nods. He leaves and she follows. Through the room and to the back, up the stairs leading to freedom or death; who could ever figure out such a thing? The rest of the party keeps going. Nobody sees and nobody wants to see. The beat is still pulsing through the room, keeping the words on the tongues that are being shoved into receptive mouths.

Follow them up the stairs to a door that's been splashed with neon green paint and something sticky. The knob turns too easily, the door slides open too readily, and inside there is a bed and nothing more. Follow them into the room; watch her sit, her back perfectly straight, her legs crossed, the plastic cup still in her hand. She never even takes a sip. And watch this boy, watch his slick move to sit on the bed, to lean closer as she's speaking, to brush the hair out of her face, to whisper sincerely phony words into her ear. He's nuzzling her neck and her eyes are watching the clock on the wall in front of the bed. His hands are moving to take off her top and she's just sitting, back straight, eyes on the clock, holding the plastic cup. He doesn't bother to stop, doesn't think to ask her if she's okay with this, if it's alright, is she okay. And she doesn't bother to stop him, doesn't care if it's appropriate or right or even if she wants it. She just lets his hands work their way down her legs, spreading her thighs and slipping under her skirt. And now he's kissing her, but her eyes are still on the clock, her hand still on her drink. A world of wonders that he's using one hand to undo her bra and the other to get her off and all she can do is watch the clock and hold on to the drink in her hand.

Flash to later, the time unknown; the clock on the wall the girl had been watching has been stuck at nine thirty for god knows how long. She's lying naked on the bed, her clothes in a pile on the floor, the boy sleeping soundly next to her. Her eyes are wide open and staring into the space in front of her. She barely blinks. Her breathing is shallow, much more than it had ever been before. You don't want to look at her, you don't want to see the blood running down her stomach and forming a little pool in the sheets, you don't want to glimpse the fresh gashes, barely a day old, covering her thigh and her arms. But mostly you don't want to see the vacant look in her eyes, the nothingness that managed to creep into the sweetest blue. You don't want to see. You can't see.

Turn around. Turn the knob that turns too easily and slide open the door that slides open too readily. Walk back down the stairs, into the pulsing beats and vibrant lights and into the crowds. Push your way past the stoners, past the addicts, past the sex fiends, past the nymphomaniacs, past the bags of flesh, past the blind, past the nothing no ones. Stumble into the open air. Breathe in the pollution. Make your way down the darkened street, alone and hopeless, and find yourself another party, find yourself another nothing, find yourself another drink, find yourself another way to forget, another way to pretend that you never existed in the first place. Find yourself a simpler death.

Picture this.

Another party, another girl, another boy. Picture anything but you.