But I know better.
This war didn’t start with me.
But it just might end with me.
The rave still pulses behind me, even from here. Red lights strobe across bodies slick with sweat and sin, dancers grinding like they forgot the world outside even exists. Some girl with silver glitter under her eyes is making out with a guy in a mask while another couple next to them argues and laughs in the same breath. A group of guys pass around a vial like it’s communion, pupils blown wide, hands jittering with too much serotonin and not enough sleep.
Because nothing says enlightenment like licking Molly dust off your best friend’s palm and pretending it’s some kind of holy ritual instead of a shared spiral.
A girl in a lace bodysuit spins alone, eyes closed, lips parted like she’s mouthing the words to a song only she can hear. She’s probably high as hell.
She’s probably free.
Or she’s about to vomit in the corner and mistake it for a spiritual awakening. Been there. Five stars. Would not recommend unless you’re into crying in a bathroom stall with glitter stuck to places glitter should never go.
Fuck. What a mess.
And the sick part?
It still feels safer than silence.
And shit, Igetit.
God, Brynn used to thrive in places like this. Said the chaos made her feel real. Said the music could stitch you back together if you let it. She loved the rush. The noise. The blur between too much and not enough.
Me? I just wanted to feelcloseto her again. Just wanted to know what happened to her.
The memory cracks open without warning. Her clothes on the beach. The police telling us they couldn’t find her. My texts piling up. Her phone pinging off a tower that didn’t make sense in their investigation. And then… nothing.
No goodbye. No clues. Just this void I’ve been trying to fill ever since—with neon, bass and strangers’ pills. Some things I remember too clearly. Others? They're foggy. Off. Like someone’s tampered with the reel.
Like something’s been buried.
“Blair,” Cass calls, slicing through the static in my skull. “You gonna help me or just sit there perfecting your sad-girl slouch?”
I lift my head with a smirk. “Depends. You offering free drinks for my hard work?”
She tosses me a glare. “Ha, ha so funny. Vodka. Back room. Bottom shelf. Go, now.”
I hop off the stool, flip her off casually, and head toward the storage room. My boots scuff over sticky tile, my head pounding with too many thoughts and not enough distractions.
The second I push through the door, the bass dulls like someone shoved cotton in my ears. The room hums with fluorescent buzz and the low whir of a mini fridge in the corner. There’s a battered leather couch shoved up against the back wall, cushions sagging and stained like it’s seen too many passed-out nights and sweaty hookups. A folding table’s stacked with liquor boxes and spare bar mats, and there’s a row of prep counters smeared with sticky residue and empty Red Bull cans.
A pair of security monitors flicker on a shelf above the fridge—grainy footage of the front entrance and the bar floor. Nothing exciting. No one dying.
But then?—
I’m met with a wall, floor to ceiling, completely covered in Polaroids.
There’s a girl with smeared eyeliner and a bleeding knee sitting on someone’s shoulders, flipping the camera off like a war cry. A guy doing a line off a record player—because of course that’s what vinyl’s for. A couple mid-fuck in a bathroom stall, faces blurred but not enough to hide their shame if they ever sobered up. (Not that they ever do.)
Another with a knife in her teeth, glitter on her chest, eyes sayingstab me or fuck me, your call. A dude passed out on a couch, someone’s panties draped over his face like he’s the unofficial king of bad decisions.
It’s chaos. A gallery of beautiful disasters.
Exactly the kind of mess Brynn used to chase. Exactly the kind of mess I keep pretending I’m just accidentally falling into.
I shake my head. Jesus. These people make rehab clinics look like church retreats.
