Not Another Sob Story
Word Count: 2,090
I wish I can say something like 'the loud music reverberates through the crowd as they pulse to the music. The club is all sweat and hip-grinding.'
Do they even have a name for that move? I mean, you had the jitterbug, the twist, the…whatever. My generation gets the hip-grinding. Or is it called sex-with-clothes-on? Well, whatever it's called, I'm definitely not the one participating in the mass orgy on the floor.
Do I sound moralizing?
The point is, I'm supposed to be starting a story and I'm getting off topic. I suppose I'll start off this Nobel-winning story with something really intelligent and catchy:
I'm at a club.
And in this club—concrete walls, flashing strobe lights, plenty of scarcely clad girls—I am drinking miserably at the bar, watching a particular someone across the floor. Is this starting to sound like a sob story? Well, it's not a sob story. It's a cliché.
I've deduced that one should never have a male best friend. Because you know what happens? One could hypothetically fall in love with him. It's easy. I already love him as a friend and one day, I notice how strong his arms are, how blue his eyes, or whatever. I notice how all the girls are suddenly starting to notice him and, as a best friend, I get a tab protective.
He's mine, bitches.
Who stuck with him when he went through his goth crises in high school? Who shopped for new clothes for him so he could look like the cool guy he is now? I did! He wasn't born with fashion sense, you know.
And now, of course, everyone adores Blaire Thomas, never mind the fact that he has a last name as his first name and a first name as his last name. Gee, I hope that wasn't confusing. But, you see, the thing is this: Blaire is a nice guy. Sure, he's an occasional asshole, but inside, he really cares about people. He's like the bastard with a soul.
I love him. And, for the heck of it, I'm in love with him, too.
Great, now I'm drinking at the bar, getting the "pity look" from the bartender as I slosh some tequila on my shirt, and carrying a conversation with myself.
I am not crazy. Just very drunk. It's so attractive. Everyone loves the drunk girl by the bar who's pathetically lusting after her best friend.
I stumble off the barstool and almost do a faceplant on the filthy floor. I walk in a zigzag line and penetrate the cordon of writhing bodies. Everyone's slick with sweat, but I don't even notice.
I'm not going to be pathetic. I, Berlin Halls, will be a new person, starting from now.
I use my amazing eagle eyesight to spot a dark haired guy standing two inches in front of me. He's kind of just dancing by himself, ignored by the girls around him. Poor dude.
I lean towards him and grab a fistful of his shirt. "You. Me. Dance."
At first, he's alarmed. His eyes widen as if he's going to protest—then he gives me a once over and, like every other guy, readily agrees.
Ha! This whole time, you probably thought I was some sad, overweight chick with romantic problems. You're wrong. Dead wrong.
I have hair the color of an unmarred banana. I'm very protective about my hair. I don't like to straighten it like the other girls and make it limp and sad, full of split ends. My hair is my pride and joy. It's soft like a baby's and falls around my shoulders in tendrils.
The reason I like it is because I'm really not that pretty. I definitely can't call myself gorgeous, or sizzlin', or mamasita (which are names I sometimes get). I'm perceived to be beautiful because my hair makes me look a bit ethereal, as if I might disappear into a wisp of smoke any second. My skin is pale like butter and my hair complements it so I look like one of those women in a baroque painting.
It helps that I have a nice figure.
So, here I am, dancing with this dark haired guy. He doesn't make conversation. Instead, he grabs me and thrusts his hips against mine. I feel like I'm being butt raped, but I'm a little too drunk to care.
It's hot and I'm sweaty. The music does something to me. It's coursing through my body like blood, like it's an integral part of me. My hips swing and my chest move. I'm running my fingers through his hair and he's almost drooling on my chest.
I'm starting to think—he runs his tongue along my neck—that maybe I should bring this guy home with me. Blaire will notice that I've left early. Maybe I can make him jealous and he'll realize that he's been in love with me all along and can't live without me.
Yeah, right. Like that plan ever worked in the past. How many boyfriends have I gone through just to try to make Blaire notice?
"OW!" I scream, jumping away from the dark haired guy. I'm clutching my neck and you know why? Because he freakin' bit me. He nibbled hard, too. "Not cool to go around biting strangers!"
The guy is staring back at me with a look a fear. I didn't mean to be that intimidating. I mean, I guess biting is okay. Kind of kinky, but…
Then, I notice he's not at all looking at me. He's looking behind me. I turn around, expecting a guy poised with a knife or something. Instead, all I see is Blaire.
"Did you bite her?" Blaire demanded, snarling at the simpering dark haired man with wide, fearful eyes.
I can see why Blaire can install that kind of power over the guy. He's not very muscled, or stocky. He's not scarily tall and he doesn't wear leather clothes and have tattoos. However, he has a look that can kill.
His blue eyes kind of ice over. I swear to God that sometimes, when he's really angry, silver specks appear. It's kind of pretty to look at, once you get over the whole 'Oh my God, he looks like he's going to rip out my tendons' thing.
"What are you waiting for, a cookie?"
"Sorry," the dark haired man immediately answers. They have to shout to be heard over the music. "I didn't know this is your girlfriend." He turns and scrams.
This is your girlfriend? What am I, a vase?
I'm still fuming when Blaire puts his arm around me and pulls me close. The funny thing is, we're not dancing. We're just…holding each other.
He murmurs something in my ear.
"What did you say?" I shout back at him, furrowing my brows.
Again, he murmurs something.
"What?" I ask again, shaking my head. I still can't understand a word he's saying.
He murmurs something a third time. I just roll my eyes and wrap my arms around his neck. There's no point. If he's going to talk at the volume of a mosquito, then I'm never going to hear him.
I start rolling my hips against him and we dance.
Jesus, he smells good.
I used to be Goth. I know you're widening your eyes right now, probably screaming in disbelief.
Blair Thomas a black lipstick, combat boot wearing goth? Impossible!
Well, I still have my combat boots to prove it.
It was during my goth phase that I met Berlin. We sat across from each other in AP Art. I honestly don't know how she got into the class. No, I'm not being my usual asshole self. I'm her best friend. I have a right to be frank. The ugly truth is Berlin can't draw worth a shit.
Her unnatural ability to look like a painting far suppresses her ability to create one. Berlin isn't hot. She doesn't have suntanned legs or large breasts. In fact, she's fair like skim milk with hair the shade of a Crayola yellow marker.
Fine, so I spend a lot of my time studying her. For a former goth kid, she's like an Anne Rice character: perpetually beautiful and really damn cruel.
Berlin Halls. I used to write poems about her. I still remember a peculiarly heart wrenching one:
Darkness of my yearning.
She is an angel—falls.
I've learned to stop writing poetry. I'm not good at it just because it's artsy. I now strictly stick with painting in my lofty studio home.
Back to her cruelty. I've watched Berlin go through countless men. She discards them like old tissues. In the beginning, she seems to be intensely interested in them. It's sickening to watch them kiss (and they somehow always kiss in front of me). A week later, a month perhaps, the poor guy is forgotten. Her interest snaps like a twig and that would be the last time I see the unfortunate fellow.
So far, I've been the longest running male figure in her life. I intend to stay. I know that possibly, at some point, she had/has feelings for me. I have to admit that I'm a lot better looking than I used to be. Some girls dig the whole black hair, blue eyes package. And if I really want to make them swoon, I tell them I'm a painter. Never mind that I've never sold a single painting.
Berlin has told me on occasion that she thinks I'm handsome. Usually, it's in the form of, "Why would you wear that hideous sweater? Thank God you've got your looks, or you'd never get laid."
And people wonder why I'm such a bastard. It's because I deal with her all day.
Alright, so that's a lie. My horrible personality has nothing to do with her. I just don't like…people. I have a history of being angsty. People just really rub on my nerves. I have easily irritated nerves and no patience. Put that together, mix well, and voila—Blaire Thomas. In my mind, the ignorant masses are good for only two things: business deals and sex.
I'm going off in tangents now. The point I was getting to is that I know I have a chance with Berlin if I want. But, you see, once she has me in her little claws, she'll forget about me. I will join the rest of the men in oblivion.
My plan for tonight was to take her to a club and dance with her. Dancing will be the closest we'll ever get to sleeping together. However, the plan went awry almost as soon as we stepped inside. A girl with a low cut top and incredible breasts pulled me onto the dance floor. When I looked back, Berlin was gone.
Now, several hours later, I have danced with just about every girl but Berlin. But, suddenly, I get a glimpse of her hair, flashing like a gold coin. Abandoning the girl I'm currently with (she had "gotten low" somewhere down to my ankles. Usually, I'd be enjoying a girl with so much flexibility, but the night is waning and time is running out), I cleave my way through the crowds.
Then, I see this stranger running his tongue all along her neck. To my great pleasure, she suddenly jumps away from him. She screams something at him and I hear the word 'biting'. That's all I need. Suddenly, I'm her knight in shining armor. I stand behind her, glowering at the man.
"Did you bite her?" I growled as I stared him down. He just stands there dumbly, looking up at me. "What are you waiting for, a cookie?"
He's reduced to a puddle of fear and mutters something quickly before he disappears. I almost want to laugh. For some reason, people become really afraid of me when I glare at them.
I look down at Berlin. She's drunk and looking very pissed off. Before I know it, my arm is around her waist and we're pressed together. She sways very slightly.
I lean forward. Her body heat is inebriating. "How's your neck?"
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?"
I wince. My poor eardrums. "I asked if your damn neck is alright."
"I'm in love with you," I tell her.
In a very Berlin fashion, she rolls her eyes at me. She drunkenly wraps her arms around me and swirls her hips. I move against her and we dance.
Author's Note: This isn't really in my usual style, but I've decided to mix things up a little. It's written for a SKOW challenge, outlined below:
Challenge #8 - With Bite Requirements:
1) Must be a one-shot, Minimum 1000 words.
2) Plot: Protagonist wandering around in a club, meets someone, they flirt, then dance, and the person bites protagonist. You can take it from there.
3) Must have the quote, "Did you just bite me?" and/or "Not cool to go around biting strangers!"
4) Must involve a cookie. Of some sort.
5) Large doses of humor.
1) cannibals. As much as that'd be fun to write, it wouldn't be too fun for me to read.
2) long, meaningful moments. This challenge is meant to be quick, light, and fun.
Additional Author's Note: At the request of many, many, many reviewers, I've finally put a line between Berlin's and Blaire's POV. Hallelujah!