Story for workshop 10/10

It was the first time we had gone to a party together since she'd become...I won't say addicted, but interested...in new forms of intoxication. I didn't tell her she couldn't do it at the party, but as far as I knew none of her friends were going to be there who did it and none of my friends did it, so I figured we'd be safe. She was starting to seem normal again, like maybe she'd been taking it easy. It was our elephant in the room, the massive problem that we both recognized but refused to acknowledge. She hadn't taken her mom cheating on her father well, the deterioration of her family had torn her apart, and I apparently hadn't been enough to pull her through. Her eyes were still sunk in somewhat and they shifted constantly around the interior of the car. I reached for her hand and squeezed it, she squeezed back and smiled weakly, feigning excitement about the evening, much like myself. This was more to keep up appearances than anything. I could think of a million places I'd rather be than on my way to another night at Brad's, the same 15 or 20 people drinking, same stories, same jokes, same everything. But at least it was something, and maybe it was a chance to get things back on track.
Upon exiting the car, we made our way towards the house, and she stopped and looked at me, pulling me close to her.

"I want to have a good night tonight Connor."
I looked at her quizzically.
"What do you mean?" I figured she was saying she wanted to find some of her chemicals, and my stomach turned.

"I mean for us, I want us to try and be happy again. I really do."
I smiled and kissed her on the forehead.
"Me too doll." 
We walked in hand in hand and I felt like the night was looking up. Brad, already completely shithoused, greeted me at the door with a bottle of Fat Tire and pointed Chelsea towards the mixed drinks. I smiled at her and watched her head over, saying hello to her girlfriends at the table, Samantha and Blair. Brad disappeared into the garage where various drinking games were going on, and I started to try and find Alex.
I found him back behind the counter, passing out vodka shots to various girls he was trying to get to wasted. I grabbed his shoulder and scratched my nose, pointing upstairs. He nodded and we started to walk away, the girls gasping. I heard one of them ask if we were going upstairs to do coke, and another
ask if she could join. I smiled at Alex.

"You're a real casanova man."

"Those girls were the one. All of them."
We continued our trek to the upstairs balcony and I leaned against the balcony as Alex packed a bowl. 

"Maybe we should just start going up to each other at parties and creepily ask one another 'wanna get high?' It might draw less attention than the obvious sign for coke."
Alex shrugged and laughed.
"Fuck it, let them think what they want."

I lit a cigarette and inhaled deep, the first beer having been drank surveying the party and me well into my second. Alex paused from packing the bowl and looked up at me with a serious stare. 

"Hey, are you and Chelsea ok? I haven't seen you two hanging out as much or anything lately."
I grimaced. I hadn't really talked to anyone about what had been going on, trying my best to keep things quiet, for her sake as much as mine. I figured Alex was trustworthy enough though, and took a hit as he offered it, then exhaled into a half hearted attempt at ending the conversation.

"No, not really."

"You wanna talk about it?" He asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
I looked up at him then leaned on the other side of the balcony, overlooking the front door and the mass of parked cars occupying Brad's cul-de-sac.

“o, not really."
He lit a cigarette, and passed the bowl back to me.
"Why not?"

I waved the bowl away and looked over the edge of the railing, down at the door.
"I don't know, it's just this whole fucking thing with her and this drug..."
Just then, the door burst open and I heard girls laughing. Alex rushed to my side and stood stoically as we watched Chelsea and Blair spill onto the sidewalk, holding onto one another and stumbling. I glanced at my phone and wondered how they managed to get so fucked up within 15 minutes of being at the party. They wandered towards Blair's car and climbed in, as I sporadically puffed my cigarette and Alex stared at the scene, trying to comprehend it. The dome light stayed on momentarily then shut off. I hung my head and sighed, dreading the worst. I lit another cigarette and stared intently at the car, wishing she would climb out, only drunk. Only drunk. Please god, let her only be drunk.
A few minutes passed and she poured herself onto the sidewalk, Blair stepping around the driver's side door. They walked arm in arm back to the party, much quieter, but stumbling even more. I finished my cig and threw it as hard as I could towards the street, slumping back against the adjacent side of the balcony. Alex just stared at me. 

"What the fuck was that? What just happened?"
I stood up and took the bowl from him, finishing it off. Lighting yet another cigarette, I put my head in my hands and muttered "Fuck." Catching on to the obvious anxiety the balcony was feeling, Alex quietly packed another bowl which we finished then went back inside.
Once back in the party, I was focused on finding Chelsea and only on finding Chelsea. I was going to take her away from the party, from all these people, back to my house, where we'd stay until she was better. I'd help her, I was all she needed. No drugs, no drinking, no anything. We'd just get better, us, together. I walked to the mixed drink table and found Blair and Samantha. I tapped Blair's shoulder and she looked up at me lazily, her eyes half closed and fully dilated. Her movements were slow and clumsy, her drink spilling on her hand and a look of complete boredom gracing her tired face. 

"Where's Chelsea?" I asked, trying to maintain my last remaining stability.
She stared at me with a confused look on her face. I repeated myself, slowly and deliberately, enunciating each syllable. She finally comprehended it, but seemed flustered.

"She's upstairs with you?" 
The blood drained from my face. I let go of her shoulder and bolted upstairs, knocking on each locked door. My heart pounded hard in my chest and my high had completely faded, except for a lingering daze that seemed to inhibit my movements.
Behind door number one were people smoking a joint, the room was bathed in smoke and I shut the door almost immediately. All the other doors seemed to be locked. I checked the door at the end of the hall, which was unlocked, and stepped in. It was dark and I could hear the sounds of movement on the bed. I walked inside and flipped on the lights. Chelsea was shirtless under Brad, his hands roaming her body and their lips locked in a kiss that seemed to last an eternity. She opened her eyes and looked at me, her pupils failing to change shape at the sudden brightness. Her mouth opened. It was Chelsea, sure enough, but the look on her face, her eyes, everything about her, it was just completely different. This was just a shell of Chelsea, of who she'd become. I stared at her, hating her more than anything in that moment, and her stare told me not only that she understood, but that she would never understand all at once. Brad's fingers played with her belt. 

"Connor...I thought this was you..." Her words were slurred and almost incomprehensible. My fists clenched and my breath froze in my chest. I heard the zipper of her pants go down.
Before I could think, I had Brad on the ground. My fists rained upon his face, a great satisfaction coming over me as my knuckles connected with flesh and bone. She screamed for me to stop, wrapping a sheet around herself. I stopped momentarily, looked at Brad's bloodshot and blacked out eyes trying to focus in the room. I knew he didn't know what he was doing, that he was blacked out and didn't know Chelsea from any other random girl at the party, but didn't care. I pictured her face as I hit him, pictured her when she was on it. I wanted to show her how ugly she was to me when she was on it. I wanted to reach inside her and pull out the part of her that I still loved, the little bit of Chelsea that remained before it was all gone. But I couldn't, I could only do what I was capable of. I left Brad coughing blood on the ground and her in the bed. Back on the balcony for a cigarette, I tried to figure out my next step. I realized I had no idea what to do, and that this couldn't continue. But I realized I loved her, and that I couldn't quit her. I finished my cigarette, went back in the room, and gathered her up from the bed where she had passed out, still without a shirt. Brad had left the room, probably crawled into his bed to lick his wounds. I dressed her and carried her out to the car, ignoring the stares of everyone else, and drove home. I put her in bed with me and laid next to her, stroked her face and told her it would all be ok, even though I knew it wouldn't. She opened her eyes and looked at me.

"Did we have a good night, baby?" She asked.
A tear ran down my face and I kissed her lightly.
"We sure did sweetheart. We sure did."

Round Character Sketch-Ethel

Ethel stands at about 5' 6'. She is overweight with slouchy shoulders and old lady hair. You know the kind that only get washed by the hands of the beautician who perms it. Her glasses are huge like they were made to resemble the windshield on that van she drives. Her husband is ailing from practically everything and was recently put into a nursing home by his family, who by the way all hate her. That's a slight exaggeration. They don't hate her they just dislike her an extreme amount. They disrespect her, they talk about her, and she still loves them. She has an overweight dog. They are great companions, they even share their ice cream. Her house is always a mess. She's always gone to church meetings and lady circles and the such. She's extremely religious. She's trying to lose weight. She started walking with her dog. She visits her husband as much as she can between her hectic schedule. She has a 40 year old son that still lives at home because along with a lot of things she forgot to teach him independence. She stays out of gossip. She's a horrible cook. She is always dressed in those aerobic pant suits, the kind made of felty, stretch material.

Caroline's Story for Friday

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