A Super Duper Totally Awesome Party!!!

There's some spookums ahead so beware.

When your friend invited you to the “party of a lifetime”, you imagined gorgeous ball gowns, delectable appetizers, and all the delights of the more privileged. You didn’t think you’d be cast to the side like a slice of stale cake, and yet, here you are. After you and your friend got out of the limousine they “rented”—you don’t believe that; they probably just wanted you to feel better about your financial situation—you rolled up to the party, dressed in not matching, but complementary outfits. This was the first time you felt continent and comfortable in a while, and you were excited for the party.

And yet, here you are.

Seconds after stepping through the venue door, your friend was accosted by a horde of unfamiliar faces. You tried to fight your way in, to join the conversation, but you were pushed away as they greeted one another. Now you’re lost, with no semblance of where to go or what to do. Wanting to seem like you have a reason to be there, you meander over to the buffet. As you pick through the tiny delicacies, an immense feeling of self-loathing washes over you. You hate this. Every time you attend an event, you latch on to the one or two people you know. And when those people leave you? You stand around awkwardly, invisible to the eyes of the other, more eager, party members.

The loneliness seeps into your heart, and you wish you had the confidence to go up to someone and introduce yourself. It would be so easy; just a few steps, and you’d be there. But your crippling fear hold you back. Afterwards, you know you’ll feel regret, but the hurdle of initiating a conversation with someone you don’t know, someone who could judge you, lingers in the pit of your stomach.

Some people might think, oh, well, maybe someone will come up to you? but you know that never happens. Unless you care enough to insert yourself into someone else’s conversation, everyone is too preoccupied with everyone else to see the lonely little you sitting all alone. And of course you don’t want to be a burden, so when your friend comes over to you and asks if you’re okay, you just smile and say that your feet hurt.

Your shoes have never been more comfortable.

It kills you to know that the real reason why you don’t “put yourself out there” is because you’ve been unknowingly excluded too many times to try and get involved again. So you sit. And wait. Just two more hours until your friend will tire out and you can finally leave the party.

You’re already on the verge of tears when a waiter comes up to you and shoves a plate into your arms.

“What are you waiting around for?” she cries. “People out there need serving!”

“I’m not a—” you start, but she doesn’t hear you. She grabs your wrist aggressively and pushes you into a nearby crowd of patrons. You would have set the plate down, but now that people are staring at you, all you can do is offer the plate.

“Hors d'oeuvres?” you offer. A couple people seem interested, but no one takes anything. You back away awkwardly. Now that the shock has worn off, tears start streaming down your face. You would find your friend, but the party is massive and it isn’t your agreed meeting time yet. So off you go, serving ungrateful rich people who won’t even look you in the eyes. You’re just about at your wit’s end when a clearly inebriated man knocks into you. You flinch back, not trusting him to act in sound mind, but he just apologizes through slurred speech.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, adding, “Do you know where the . . . washroom is?” You can smell the barf on his lapel and decide to help the poor man out. Plus, you want to set down your tray.

“Of course, sir. Follow me.” It takes you a while to find the water closet, but you eventually stumble upon it. You gently set the man down and go look for some paper towels to clean him up.

You don’t know why you’re doing this. In fact, you almost want to stop your task and leave the party, but something odd compels you. As you’re leaving the bathroom, you can see the man’s eyes watching your reflection. It deeply unsettles you; you hasten your pace out the door.

It takes you a while, but eventually you come across a storage closet of paper towels. They are conveniently located right next to the bathroom, on the left hand side. You wish you hadn’t started walking to the right earlier, or you could have saved a lot of time. Carrying your hard-earned stack in your arms, you walk into the washroom again, only to encounter the miserly sound of water running and the awful sensation of wet feet. While you were gone, a toilet overflowed and is now causing plenty of property damage. Great. Rushing over to the stall the water is coming from, you notice the drunk has passed out and is now enjoying a not-so-relaxing cold bath. You think he’ll be fine; the water is only a few inches deep. As you focus on your task, you neglect to notice the growing puddle of red seeping out from under the poor man. Looks like he’ll never drink again.

The toilet, as you soon discover, is just broken. You decide to go out and tell someone about it, maybe conveniently placing the blame on the drunk. Who knows? But as you turn to leave the bathroom, you slip on the excess water and feel your skull crack against the sink. Your senses go blurry, and you collapse onto the floor, soaking your clothes. Your pricey, rented clothes.

Your thinking grows labored as red streams out of your head. It’s pooling in your peripheral vision. You would call for help, but who would come? Nobody cares about you, the little nobody who wasn’t even notable to recieve an actual party invitation. Not even the dead drunk cares about you. As your vision begins to grow dim, a kind of final, decisive dim, you think about your friend. You hope they get home alright; you know you won’t be there for them if they’re wasted. But what are you to do?

You’re just the plus-one.