A night on the town

[Skittles]

She let the music and wash through her. It was cleansing in an ironic way. The music was of sex and alcohol and drugs; it was of hooking up with some hottie who is never seen again; it was of men that did whatever they wanted and women who would do anything for a taste of that freedom; it was of ice cream drugs and candy booze and of binging on those sweets; it was of nights that would be regretted if allowed to be remembered clearly.

She had dressed herself in red sex and black knives, her hair was dark waves and her eyes were pieces of the noon sky framed in black nights. She drank cherry bubbles and scanned the crowd, looking for something.

She noticed the women, most of whom were looking for some sense of validation. She noticed the men, most of whom were looking for a cheap night and a face without a name. They were sad, disgusting. But not that she was much better.

She wasn't who she was. She is a mess, her back is nothing more than a lattice work of a past that is hazy, fractured memories of dark nights and broken cries. She has little to trust around her anymore. Memories of two people floating around in her head. She can still feel the pain from being torn apart, she can hear her ribs cracking, she can feel the scratching in her throat from screaming. She was two people and no one at the same time. Probably worse off than the animals that were writhing on the dance floor.

When she is accidentally bumped by a drunk girl wanting more elixir, she remembers what she came here for and begins scanning the room. That one is too popular, this one is too lonely, that one is too sober, that one will pass out in about five minutes. She spots someone near the bar, a man here with a few friends, but easy enough to get to. She smirks and orders a rum and coke. She eyes her target as she saunters over.

He'll do.