Whispers In The Dark

Riley

Riley

It was only natural that I would have detention after school on a Friday, during the first week of school.

I contemplated not showing up, but decided that I had nothing else to do except get drunk (which really didn't sound too bad), and it was probably better to just serve my sentence then rather than getting another.

I was the only person there when I walked into Italian after the final bell had rung. I was fine with that. It meant less people for me to deal with.

I was slightly disappointed when I heard the door open a few minutes later and a detention slip was placed on the teacher's desk, but I chose to ignore whoever it was and bury my head in my arms.

It seemed that that wasn't an option, however, as the other person sat down in the chair next to me and began scribbling noisily on a notebook.

I raised my head and glared at them tiredly, but it was really more of an exasperated look. I just wanted to go home and drink and sleep, all weekend long.

The other girl looked at me, too, a pierced girl with pink hair and a sneer on her face. My mind reeled at the anger churning in her eyes.

"What's your problem?" I mumbled.

She laughed bitterly. "My problem? What's your problem?"

I almost snapped at her, but then it clicked. I had been awful to her on the first day of school, merely because I was angry at someone else.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "I was mad."

She knew what I was talking about, and it was obvious that she was shocked that I had apologized.

"What?" she asked, dumbfounded. "You're apologizing?"

I nodded my head and then buried my face in my arms, again. Her scribbling was quieter this time.

Her scribbling ceased. "Why were you mad?"

I didn't raise my head. "Some guy swore at me."

The scribbling resumed. "Oh." It was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry, too, I guess."

"For what?"

"For snapping at you."

I shrugged my shoulders, which wasn't exactly the easiest thing considering that I still had my head in my arm. "You had reason."

My head was starting to pound, and the eighth of vodka that I had slipped before showing up to detention had not kicked in enough for me to be numb. I was barely buzzed. I pulled my "water" bottle from my book bag and took two large gulps, knowing that it wasn't enough vodka to let anyone know I was drunk, but enough to let my brain think it was.

It burned and I had to force myself to swallow it, but the heat in my throat was a nice feeling and I was glad that I had done it, even if my tongue did taste like nail polish remover.

She scribbled as I did so, but I saw her eyes flicker toward me more than once.

I turned toward her. "What?"

She smiled sheepishly. "Can I have some?"

I was taken aback. "What?"

She rolled her eyes. "You've been slurring your words since you walked in. It's obvious that you've been drinking, and from the shininess of your eyes, I'm pretty sure that that's alcohol."

I handed over the bottle reluctantly. "What's your name, anyway?"

She only took a sip before handing it back. "I'm Victoria, and you're Riley, the school bitch." She winced. "Sorry. Honestly, though, you really are a bitch most of the time."

It hurt to hear that, but I chastised myself quickly. I already knew that I was a bitch. It was old news to me. "I know."

"Why do you do it?" She was back to scribbling.

I shrugged, again, and let my chin fall to rest on my crossed arms. "It's just who I am."

She didn't seem convinced. "If that was the case, then why aren't you being a bitch to me right now?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Would you like me to be a bitch to you?"

"Well, no," she said awkwardly. "It's just weird, you know?"

"No, I don't know."

She sighed and put her pencil down. "I see you with your friends all the time and you hardly talk to them, and when you do, it's just to agree with them. Sometimes you even look sad. But when you're confronted by someone you just morph into a bitch and start snapping at people like it's second nature to you or something. I just don't believe it."

My heart jumped, but I said, "You don't have to."

I could see that she was becoming frustrated.

"It just," she groaned. "It doesn't make any sense!"

"It makes a lot of sense," I said. But it didn't, and I didn't understand it anymore than she did. I knew what had happened, but it still confused me why I had become this.

"But-"

"Leave it," I said firmly. For a moment, I thought that she would strike back, but she didn't. I looked to her notebook. "What are you drawing?"

She didn't seem happy with the subject change, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

She looked at her notebook and grimaced. "Just a razor."

I looked closer and saw that it was a razor. I froze and for a moment I thought I would cry. I drank from my bottle and collected my bag. The teacher didn't say anything as I left, neither did Victoria.

I walked home and then I got drunk; very, very drunk. I was past being numb by the time that my dad found me, crying on the bathroom floor with an empty bottle of cherry Smirnoff and Skylar’s favorite sweatshirt; a gray one with a hood and the logo of some small indie band that he used to listen to all the time.