You think that you have never been this alive in your life. It frightens you, in an uexpected way, terse in your center. Alive alive alive. Your heart thrums against your chest, loud in your ears. You puff out a breath. Alive alive alive. The world is spinning. Alive alive alive. There is no one who is as alive as you are, no one who can feel the life flowing through their veins, liquid life, matter, energy, H2O, molecules, atoms buzzing violently. You touch her shoulder. Bare. Skin, warm, exhilarating. She smiles, worldly. You think you love her, a hazy recognition of your inner struggle. It's stupid. Her skin is dark like...chocolate. Yeah. You want to kiss her chocolate skin and that. That is the oddest thought you've let yourself have in a long time. Yor chest heaves, breasts rising, falling. She watches briefly, and your skin sings. You want all of her attention. To bask in it. Bathe in the beauty of her dark dark eyes. If she would only let you. The world is strange, your eyes strain in the dark of her bedroom. Everything is always so dark. Maybe it's the price you pay for being alive. The bottle in your hand is lukewarm, liquid fire, sliding down your throat like acid. You lean against the mattress, face pressed against her comforter. The two of you are on her floor, legs bare on the carpet. She is femme fatale and you are caught in her trap. You're watching her fingers dance, smoothing down the fabric of her shorts. Neon yellow. Blinding. Grounding. She's always been fidgety. You hand the bottle back and she tips it into her mouth, a satisfying swig, her throat, long and elegant, swallowing. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She is wearing a tanktop, a little big in the chest area but satisfactory in the hip area. She holds it out, and you take it, but don't drink yet. "How do you...?" "Fine. Good. Tired. Dizzy, a little. S'kay." She smiles at you, slow and sweet and with a little poke of teeth. You tangle your legs with hers. It feels right. You are in no position to question it. You are a romantic sap. Is it romance? You think so. You wouldn't say it outright, of course. You have dignity. Kind of. You're too busy with being alive, honestly. Wrapped up, doused with alcohol and warmth. Familiarity. "Good. You're...good. Real good. Better 'n good. More good. Yeah." You mutter, and spill liquid on your knees. Your brain stutters. Alive. You're so alive you might be dead. "Shit. Fuck. 'M sorry, Hel. Oh. God. I needa-" you panic, scrabble on the ground for purchase, to stand up. Clean up, maybe. One step at a time. God. Are your legs broken? Can you feel them anymore? Oh god. Your arm is wet. There is an infinite pool of some unnamed substance- sticky. You right the bottle, what little of its contents were left now drained into the rug in your friend's room. You curse a little more. Everything is fuzzy. You kind of wish you were dead. "No shhhh shhhh shhh it's- it's fine come on stop bein' a dumbass c'mere you- stop." She gripes and pulls you forward by the arm. The two of your tumble, and you laugh, alcohol sloshing. You guess there is some left. Her face is half cast, the moon shining on he high cheekbones and her curly curly hair casts shadows on her forehead. You want to touch it. But your fingers are sticky. "C'mon lets- lets go outside there are- stars. Look." She points to the door and yes- there are stars. You use the bed as a crutch to stand, and pull her with you. She wobbles, and takes a deep breath. "Balcony." She motions, and the two of you stumble drunkenly, slide the door open, and plop yourselves into your respective chairs. You have always loved this part of her house in particular. Her home is on the outer parts of the city- there are trees and at first you thought it odd, but it makes perfect sense now. You're quiet, the both of you, breathing in unison, mapping out blurry patterns. It feels like a big blanket of dark with holes of light the kind you keep because of nostalgia and not because it serves any real purpose. You're glad her parents aren't home. The bottle thuds as you set it down next to you- mostly empty. You look over at her, and she's staring back. Your skin is milky white in the moonlight. "Hey. Olive. You need- to know-" she whispers brokenly, and reaches out, touching the armrest of your chair. "Olive juice." She murmurs, low and your scalp tingles. You open your mouth to say something, make fun of her maybe, you don't remember what you're saying as you say it, but Helen slumps down, snoring. Always snores. You shift comfortably, and down the rest of the bottle. "Right back at you." You mutter, staring at her hand. You almost reach out to grab it, such a small distance- but you don't. Your eyelids are heavy. Your name is Olivia Patrick. You are alive, and messed up. ---- Some dumb thing I wrote last night. That's it though. A continuation is uncalled for.