Prom

She screamed really loud when her best friend walked through the door. Because it was real.

They were going to prom. They were going in tafetta pink dresses, dresses they had found at a vintage store, dresses that were sad and alone. They saved them. They made them beautiful, sewing flowers into the fabric, spreading gems all over their bodices. Innocent smiles on their faces.

"Okay, everybody get in the picture!", she squeeled.

She saw them all in the tiny shot. All of them being her and her best friend, and prom dates they found at a show last weekend.

They didn't like being alone.

It had been a long time since they felt like this. She hadn't seen her best friend for a while and it made her sad. She remembered when her dad was in the hospital and they went to visit him, and they held hands because she was so scared. She remembered when they went to the beach and wore oversized, floppy, hats, but she still got burned so badly she didn't want to go to school. She remembered when they were young and put on lipstick, staring at themselves in the mirror. Desperately trying to forge ahead of their youth. She remembered when her best friend's mom died, when she went over to her house and found her sitting in the bathroom in her mother's clothes. She remembered when they danced, when they went out when it was dark and found strangers to dance with, to become magical creatures. To be loved. To be worshipped, to twist and turn. To quench the thirst they had for a feeling of belonging.

She took the picture. Her date, the one with the mohawk, groaned.
"Let's get the fuck out of here."

Her father had rented a limo, trying to show he wanted to help. He was worried.
The one with the mohawk opened up the champagne in the backseat.
"Drink," he said, pressing it to her lips.

She held her best friend's hand. Tight.

Her best friend's date had green hair.
He poured something into the punch.

"You're going to have to leave now, sir," a woman said.
So they left.

The guy with the mohawk had a big house. His parents weren't home,
"They never fucking are. assholes," is what he had said.

He had more liqour at the house and they all intended on getting drunk. Feeling free. Not remembering why their lives were slowly falling apart. She thought about next year and how it would be without her best friend. She took a shot.

Her date played some loud music and made some lines on the kitchen table.
"Have some", he said, pushing her nose to the powder.

He passed out on the kitchen floor. She had another shot.

She finished the bottle.

She walked upstairs and found a bathroom. She sat in the tub. What if I drowned myself, she thought. What if I stopped living.
She went back downstairs.

She could hear her best friend having sex with the green-haired guy. They were being loud and the bed kept hitting the wall and he was yelling.

She opened up another bottle.

Her best friend walked in and giggled. Opened up the fridge and chugged some orange juice.
"Screwdrivers!" she screamed.

The guy with the mohawk walked in.

"Shit. She is fucked up."


"Aren't we all?" she asked, before throwing up all over her dress and falling over.