Why is Phil coping with this party better than I am? Is it because of
the shirt he's wearing? Plain black with the words 'Last man in the
world' printed on it. How can Phil not care so much about being so odd
and out of place? I've tried to do better. Tried to be more than a
Naomi-focused loser. I've noticed one or two girls I'd quite like to
talk to, but how do you start? You can't just walk up and launch into
it. I think all my plans involved finding myself face to face with
someone who was expecting conversation. Someone who would kick things
off, lead me to an opportunity to create the right impression, use my
best stuff: the browns, species names, Frøken Smilla's fornemmelse for sne, if it isn't too Danish for a girl. And then she steps up behind me and I feel something in my hair.
A girl! She looks about my height. She smells like a forty
year old wino who has never encountered a shower. And yet the
picturesque appearance of her broad smile along with her dark brown
hair makes her seem, at least, slightly attractive.
Sorry,
she uttered, while pulling a clump of my hair out, in which it seems
her Chupa Chup has become entangled, she gives up and lets it hang
there.
Um, hello?
Hi, I'm Imogen, she glares at the Chupa Chup still stuck in my hair as though it might jump out and eat her.
Eh... Dan. So how about this party? I attempt conversation
once more, hoping it will turn out well, I suppose I preempt the
failure but nevertheless do my best to make this interesting.
Oh alright.
She looks away from my hair and decides to stare at the floor instead.
You know, the whole hair thing wasn't really an accident, I... She's
cut off by Phil reentering, hurriedly whispering something about a bomb
into my ear. I think how this could ruin whatever chances I have with
Imogen before my attention returns to Phil. Empty verbiage is all I
hear, none making any sense until I see the green smoke flowing in from
the kitchen. It smells worse than Imogen did when I first saw her - a
smell which I seem to have adjusted to now - but from the kitchen, this
gas or smoke or whatever it is.. The odor is almost intoxicating and
reminds me of a movie I once saw.. 'Requiem For A Dream'... The smoke
gives the living room a level of surreality I haven't felt before.
Everyone in the house ran en masse towards the exits in a
discombobulated frenzy. Imogen took my hand and launched out the back
door, running past the fig tree. Too close and pulling me into it. As I
fall, the right side of my head throbbing, she lets my hand go and sits
down next to me. After a couple of seconds she realizes I hadn't meant
to 'lay' down and comforts me.
You really are quite drunk aren't you? I state the obvious with
only one thing on my mind, the impending defenestration I'd later use
to get revenge on her for causing this pain... Although it won't
actually happen I feel slightly better and amused at the thought.
I'm so sorry, it was an accident I swear... She trails off into an apology and I wonder how many shades of brown different lynx spiders have.
It's alright I'm fine. I lie, thinking how bad she must feel,
and the slight isolation I feel. Now I have absolutely no idea where
anyone is. I look over at her, very confused tonight, and it seems she
has passed out.
I lay back and stare at the stars for what seems like it must
be hours. I haven't heard anything from the direction of the house
since we left it, nor anything of Imogen since I lay down. I turn
towards her and notice a strand of clumped hair hanging over her mouth,
I stroke her cheek under the pretense of moving her hair away.
Without thinking I lean in to kiss her on the lips. Maybe the
knock to my head removed some inhibitions.. She holds her breath, or at
least she seems to. My lips touch hers and at first I taste the sweet
strawberry flavoured residue left by her Chupa Chup, and what seems to
be blackberry lip-gloss. I might not have kissed a girl before but I'd
know that flavour anywhere, mum used to always hand me a glass of
blackberry juice with breakfast.
But over that and the moist sensation of my lips on hers,
there's another fragrance. A bitter scent to begin with, then it grows
stronger until I feel like throwing up. That's it! I can smell and
partially taste her vomit! I had seen a show on TV where a girl was
drunk and hit her head on a pole, rendering her unconscious, the girl
had died, suffocated, on her own spew. I pull my head away from hers
and open her mouth a little with my hands, I feel ill at the sight.
By the time the ambulance arrives I've thrown up as well, and
I only feel worse with each passing comment. Jacq stands beside me
telling me it will all be fine. I don't believe her, and my suspicions
are confirmed when one of the five paramedics that arrived tells me she
suffocated to death on her own vomit. I decide never to tell anyone
that I kissed her.
A short story beginning half way through the book 48 Shades of Brown by Nick Earls, I found it in a pile of stories I wrote for my English class a few years ago and thought I'd add it here.