Deathless

Chapter 12: Millie

Music moves through me, a throbbing booming vibration, almost violent in how it seems to echo within my bones. The dancefloor is packed and I crash into people uncontrollably, a night of shots and cocktails has left me struggling to focus on something as simple as dancing. My body feels wrong, my limbs don't belong to me, and my brain is taking too long to process the world around me. Everything is both too slow and too fast.

The heat is unbearable, sweat drips down my spine. My hair sticks to the skin on my neck and forehead. The stuffy air is hard to breathe. The scolding lights beating down on me aggressively. My throat is dry and I feel sick.

I try to remember how I got here. I faintly remember the unbearable high of Jackson's kiss, that giddy feeling of elation in my belly, the rightness of it, only for him to disappear as if my lips had burnt him. Blake had poured me another cocktail, and it had slipped down my throat as easily as water. I'd stumbled back to the booth, feeling a strange mix of happiness and disappointment, a night's worth of drinks finally coasting through my bloodstream. The kiss was intoxicating, but he was gone almost as soon as I'd opened my eyes. I wasn't sure whether to explore the club and seek him out again or to accept I was in way over my head when it came to Jackson Mort.

Chloe had dragged me to the dancefloor as soon as I'd slipped back into the booth, following a group of boys she and Samira had been chatting to. Marnie was licking her wounds over her failure with Jackson, sitting on the lap of a bearded man in a fashionably too-tight shirt, devouring each other in slobbering kisses that made me feel queasy.

They'd disappeared a while ago, as did the boys, with their hands grabbing at my hips as they pushed their bodies unbearably close to mine. I make my way through the thick crowd of people, elbows digging sharply into me, my feet tripping over shoes and dropped pint glasses. The dirty looks and mouthed sounds are like imitations of speech—I can't make out the words. And by the time my brain has processed they've happened, I'm already a few steps away.

Now I'm at the edge of the dancefloor, finally away from the sweaty body of anyone else. I take a breath, hoping to gulp clean air but only get the stale smog of spilt beer and cheap perfume. I'm aware faintly that I need to find Chloe, that I haven't seen her in so long, and that's bad. Though the exact reason was absent from my mind for the moment. All I knew was that my insides were lurching, liquid swaying precariously in my stomach.

I stumble through the club, heading quickly towards the toilets. Now and then my ankle twists painfully as I forget about my high heels. I can't see Chloe anywhere on the floor. And I see no sign of Marnie or Samira. Worship was getting quieter, the night nearly over, and I was alone.

Bad.

The toilets were busy but not brimming with people. I lurch towards an open stall, ignoring the expensive-looking ivory decorations and gold taps that seemed mocking against the mess of the space. Lipstick was smeared into mirrors, dirty tissues scattered all over, and broken make-up packaging left on puddled sinks. The girls all seem to turn and look at me, and once I glimpse myself in the mirror, it's easy to see why.

I probably looked a state a few hours ago, now I barely look human. My damp hair sticks out at all angles, and my make-up is smudged across my face in every place but where it was originally applied. My dress is hanging awkwardly off my shoulder, revealing one bra strap and hitched up high on my thighs. None of the gawping girls are Chloe or her friends.

Once in the stall, I sink to the ground, just in time for the night's colourful drinks to spill from my lips splashing into the toilet. I hear chuckles from outside as I continue to empty my stomach until there's nothing left. My throat burns, and I can feel cold sweat dappled on my forehead.