EVERLY AFTER - Chapter 1

EVERLY AFTER - Chapter 1 Excerpt

By Rebecca Paula

I don’t want to fucking be here.

I don’t have a scene. Those are for hipsters. Even if I did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be a crowded rager in some stranger’s flat like this one. I suck it up anyway, and follow my friend, Oliver, through the oddest crowd I’ve seen to hunt down a beer.

“Where’d you hear about this?” I yell into his ear. His answer is drowned out by the bass shaking the packed room. It’s dark, save for some disco balls and black lights. Everyone’s glowing neon. I thought I saw someone wearing a unicorn mask when we first arrived.

Ollie grins at me over his shoulder, almost clotheslining some guy dancing when he raises his arm and points across the room. He says something again but I can’t hear. I follow his point to a group of half-naked girls holding a photo shoot with giant balloons and a confetti gun. They’re jumping in front of a strobe light so it looks like they’re floating as confetti rains down.

I rub my eyes, a little freaked out. It’s too loud. My palms are sweaty. I never did this scene in university, and after being stuck in war zones for so long, I hate pointless shit like this.

“I need a drink,” I yell to Ollie.

I’m too late. He’s already making a beeline to the topless birds. Not that this surprises me.

Ollie’s on his own.

I shove through the crowd, tensing as some girls start fangirling over who likes the song playing better, their voices pitched in an earsplitting shrill. My mouth goes dry.

I suck in a deep breath, elbowing my way to a door across the room. I pray it’s the damn loo. If I can find a small corner and have room to breathe, I might not knock someone out.

A girl in a neon bikini and a giraffe mask is lounging in the bathtub when I open the door.  Another wearing an Indian headdress, covered in body paint on the opposite end. Between them, a girl sporting Ray-Bans and stuffing a block of cheese into her mouth. A discarded pizza box is tossed on the floor next to the empty champagne bottles rolling at my feet. Lipstick hearts are smeared over the tiled wall behind them. They look up and laugh, waving for me to join them.

Not a chance in hell.

I back out, my hands held high in surrender. I weave through the horde of stupored idiots until I’m in a bedroom. People are jumping on the bed, spraying silly string and glitter everywhere. It’s the strangest fucking party. It’s like I was out with my mate, then tripped, and fell into a neon hell full of ravers.

There’s a bottle of something sitting on a dresser. I can’t make out what it is but the noise is gnawing at my nerves. I cave and swipe it. I climb out the opened window on my left, out onto the fire escape. It’s old and rusty and I’m not sure it’s going to stay attached to the building. I race up the rungs until I reach the rooftop, then spin around and clutch the ledge, looking out at the lights of Paris. I concentrate on breathing in and out like the shrink told me. But my heart is racing and I feel like I’m going to puke.

After you see the things I’ve seen, you can’t unsee them. It’s the sounds of screams and mortar shells exploding, the smells of burning flesh, the images of desperation. They root themselves into you like a damn thorn. They’re stubborn and stick, always a pain in the ass when you crave normalcy but end up snapping.  Like now. My boss insisted I go to therapy after what happened or I’d lose my job. So I go. But it’s not helping. Obviously.

“You might not want to drink that.” The smooth French voice startles me. My knuckles whiten, my hands grip the ledge so tightly I might crumble the old brick.