The House on the End of the Cul-De-Sac

There's a party at the house on the end of the cul-de-sac. I don't want to go, but she's going. My friend also wanted to go, claiming he'd stay with me the entire time, but now I'm here at the front door and he's already gone. The host opens the door and lets me in with a nod. There's music blaring so loud it sounds muffled, red cups in tangled hands moving to the beat of the music. My stomach turns and already I want to leave, but I haven't seen her yet. I ask around and some say she's by the pool, others say she's upstairs with another guy, which I know isn't true because she's not like that. Finally, the last guy I ask also says she's by the pool, making that two claims that she really is by the pool. Except I have no idea where the pool is so I have to pull aside another guy and ask. He says, slurred, that the pool is right out back, two turns down the hallway and out the sliding glass door. 

There are just as many people outside as there are inside. I wonder how there hasn't been a noise complaint filed yet. Or if there was, why nothing's happened. Most of the people here are definitely under 21, and yet nearly all of them are walking or talking in the way that only drunk people do. I myself am not yet 21, but notice the lack of a red solo cup in my hand.

I look around for a familiar face, or her crown of dark brown hair that is unique only to her. Her skin is dark, too, so in a school predominantly Caucasian, it's always easy to spot her.

There's a scream, and I turn just in time to see someone tossed into the pool. The underwater lights are on, bright, too, and a few bodies float lazily at the shallow end of the pool. 

"Where are you…?" I mutter under my breath. I turn in circles, pushed by and pushing multiple drunk individuals aside. I stop at the deep end and stand there, my head on a swivel looking for her.  Out of the corner of my eye, by the table set with food and beer, I see a flash of orange. I lose it, but then find it again when a person with an orange shirt emerges from the crowd by the table with a plate and cup in hand, trying desperately to get somewhere not as stuffed with people. Their skin is a familiar tan, and their hair a bed of dark brown I know so well.

"Cassidy!" I call, waving my arms like a madman. She stops and turns when she hears her name called, looking around for who said it. I run over to her and she smiles, pleased to see someone who isn't blackout drunk. I see her plate is piled with chips and pretzels, little things, but a lot, so that she won't have to go back again for seconds. In her cup is grape soda. At least, I think it is.

"Evan?" she yells over the music. She's got jean shorts on and flimsy flip-flops. It's her shorts that irk me, because even out of their drunk stupor men will do stupid things. Her orange shirt is just a regular t-shirt, thankfully. I do feel a little stupid, though, as I'm wearing baggy cargo shorts with infinite pockets and an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt I stole from my dad's closet. I've got my watch with me, mostly because I promised to help my brother with landscaping tomorrow and I don't wanna be late, but also because it's an expensive (ish) one. I'm hoping she'll notice and compliment it.

"You want any?" she asks, pushing her plate a little my way. I take a singular chip and thank her.

"Can we go inside?" I ask, looking around as more people flood outside. 

"There are lots of people in there, too," she says, taking a long sip from her solo cup. "There are rooms upstairs, though."

"Sure," I say, nodding my head. She turns and begins walking, and I let my hand rest at her shoulder, ushering her away from the deafening crowd.

People call out to her as she makes her way up the stairs. She doesn't look back to see if I'm following her or not.

I open doors for her, as her hands were full. In one room, there are a couple of older kids leaned over a table, snorting who knows what. In another, there were three people doing unholy things in a bed. I quickly shut the doors on both and turn to face her.

"Maybe the bathroom?" I ask, sort of awkwardly. She nods her head coolly and leads the way. It was only just a couple of steps down the hall.

"Have you been here before?" I ask, stepping in. It's a master bathroom, decorated like a bedroom, only with onions, for whatever reason. She only nods her head again and flicks a switch, turning on more lights. As I stand squeamishly by the door, she walks in and sets her plate and cup down on the bathroom counter and sits down on the closed toilet.

"Was there something you wanted to tell me, or are you looking for something more?" I open my mouth to defend myself, but she raises her hand before I can begin. "I already told the others no."

"Others...?" I knew what she meant. "That's not what I- I didn't-"

"I know," she says, laughing. She reaches over and grabs her cup, taking another long sip and setting it back down empty. "I don't like crowds either."

"Why did you come, then?" I ask, sitting down on the floor. I reach behind my back and close the door so that no noise would get through. 

"I heard someone I was interested in was coming. Also, I didn't have to pay for food, so there's that, too."

"You didn't drink any alcohol, did you?" I ask. She frowns.

"Who are you, my dad? What does it matter if I did or not? I didn't, but what's it to you?" I'm quick to respond.

"Nothing," I say. "It's just, there are some questionable guys here. They wouldn't ask for consent, especially if you were drunk."

"I know that," she says, almost snappy. "More than you, probably."

"Can I have some of your chips?" I ask to change the topic of conversation.

"Be my guest," she says, motioning to the plate with a flick of her wrist. "But," she warns, "if you eat all of it, you have to get me more."

"Alright," I laugh lightly, reaching up over the counter. As I munch on some sun-chips, she joins me on the floor, coming up and sitting down right in front of my knees. She sits criss crossed like I do, and mimics the way I'm sitting by propping her elbows on her knees and slouching dramatically. She reaches up and grabs a chip off the plate, examining it before popping it into her mouth. Her nose crunches and she gags.

"Nasty," she mutters, swallowing. I cover my mouth and laugh. She looks up at me and raises her eyebrows.

"Evan…" she says. Her tone makes me freeze, a chip halfway in my mouth. "What are we?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, chewing slowly. I slouch further into myself, wary of what she has to say.

"We're friends, aren't we? We've known each other since...since forever and- and even our parents know each other. But what does that make the two of us?"

"I don't get what you're saying," I say, scooting back a little.

"I'm saying...what if we didn't know each other? We know each other because our parents knew each other. But what if they didn't? Where would we be if our parents never met?"

"Well," I swallow, "I'd imagine we'd be the same. We're not just friends because our parents are, but because we share similar interests and...stuff. That, and...well, you're you. And I like...you."

She smiled darkly and stood. "Thanks, Evan." She steps around me and opens the door.

"Where are you going?" I ask, standing as well.

"To get more food," she says, nodding her head at the now empty plate. "Just stay here, I'll be right back."

"Okay…" I do as I'm told, like some dog, and sit back down. I tap my foot impatiently, waiting for the knob to turn. I hope nothing's happened to her. What I said to her about men is true. The guys at this party I know are awful. Lower than dirt. They wouldn't care. They wouldn't even remember in the morning because they're all drunk.

The volume goes up. I hear thumping and banging downstairs, which could be either crazy party-goers or an excited couple.

"Cassidy…" I say in a sing-song voice. "Cassidy. Cassidy. Wherefore art thou, Cassidy?"

Just as I'm about to give up and go look for her, there's a knock on the door. It's weak, and I think it's someone who needs to throw up. I open the door quickly so that there's no mess outside, and I step aside so that I don't get thrown up on. But no one comes in. I lean over to see who it is.

It's Cassidy.

"Back already?" I ask, stepping out. She's leaned over, like she does need to throw up. "Where's the food?" There's no plate. "Cassidy? What's wrong?" I reach out for her, and as soon as my hand touches her shoulder, she stumbles forward and into the bathroom. I catch her just before her head hits the toilet, and I sit her down so I can see what's wrong.

I wish I didn't.

Her hand's covered in blood. There's so much of it I can't tell where it's coming from. It's dripping all over her, down her wrist to her elbow. She 's clutching her hand to her chest, staining the orange with dark red.

"Cassidy, what happened?" I ask, more demand of her. She only shakes her head and tucks further into herself. She whispers something, but it's too quiet for me to hear. I lean down so that her lips tickle my ear and wait for her to say it again. 

Then, she finally whispers, "...Hide."

"What?" I say, jumping back. I grab her shoulders and make her look up. "What do you mean?" I shake her a little, and it seems to wake her from some trance. She looks at me with wide and terrified eyes.

"There's...There's somebody down there," she whispers, shaking. "He's- he's hurting… people. Evan, you have to- you have to hide."

"Did he hurt you?" She nods.

"He has a gun Evan. You have to hide."

"There are people down there," I say, standing up. There's blood on me. Her blood. "There are so many people down there. I can help them."

"No!" she yells. Only when she raises her voice do I realize how the thrum of voices has almost disappeared. The music is still playing just as it was before. Cassidy grabs my wrist with her good hand. "You have to hide," she repeats. "You'll get hurt."

"I won't," I tell her, and flick off the lights. I rush out before I can hear her say anything else.

There are people everywhere. In the kitchen, the living room. Every square inch of the house has a foot on it. They're all crammed inside. I hear screaming.

I push myself through the crowd and come to the sliding glass door. It's locked closed, but there are still people outside, pushing against the glass till it's almost cracking. They're pounding on the door with bloody hands, screaming for someone to let them in. All the noise- the chaos, drowns out every feeling in my body till I feel numb.

What am I doing? I'm no hero. I can't save these people. These people, screaming for someone to help them. For me to help them. Everyone else is pushing away from the door until there's a semi-circle of space around the door. I'm the only one in that little semi-circle.

I reach for the doorknob and immediately bodies pile on me, wrenching my hand away from the door.

"What are you doing?" a voice demands. "You'll only let him in!"

"But- there are people… out there!" I yell out between gasps of air. I reach for the door again and it feels like someone's dunked me underwater. I'm pulled down by men who want everybody on the inside, but I want the people outside to survive, too.

My fingers touch the doorknob and I fight to stay standing. I think somebody's bit my shoulder.

"What are you doing?" the same voice demands again.

"Trying to….open the...door!"

"There are more people inside than out! If you let him in we'll all die!"

"No!" I say, pushing with all my strength to the door. My hand grazes the knob, then grasps it firmly. I hold onto it with everything I've got, and with everything left I wrench it open. Immediately the wave of people pushing in falls over, onto me and everyone holding me down. They all scramble away and people begin flooding out other doors. As they all push past me, I reach for the door again. Just as the last person passes through, I pull it closed. The men holding me are gone, too.

There's only one person left outside. I can see my reflection in the glass. It makes me look like I'm standing next to him. The man with a gun.

There are bodies in the pool. I try not to look at them. My body burns and aches to run, to leave and save myself. But then the man with a gun smiles, and I freeze. I feel cold and sweaty at the same time.

The last person nearest me runs away and I realize I've only been standing at the door for a fraction of a second.

The man with a gun, smiling wickedly, raises his hand. The hand with the gun in it. He points it at me and I turn to run.

Bang.

I don't feel anything. When I realize I don't feel anything, I feel relief. He missed, I think to myself. I walk into the living room away from harm. People who were hiding upstairs flood down, tripping over each other to get away. I spot a flash of orange among them all.

The girl in an orange t-shirt comes up to me, horrified. She walks slowly, or fast, if feels a blur. I feel her hands on my face, brushing something from my face.

"Oh, Evan," she says. She's crying. Why is she crying? She lowers her head and I look down. My shirt was blue. Why is it red?

"Cassidy," I say. Why is my voice so weak? "What is it, Cassidy?" She only cries, bunching my shirt into her fists.

"I told you, Evan," she says, her voice racked by sobs. "Why?"

"Why what?" I ask. I'm still standing, but I don't feel my legs. Then I realize I'm not standing up. I'm on my knees. 

"Cassidy," I say, reaching up a hand to the top of her head. She flinches at my touch. Why did she do that?

"I'm so sorry, Evan," she says. Why is she sorry? Nothing's happened. She's done nothing. I see her orange shirt, stained the same color my own shirt is. I feel overwhelmingly exhausted. Black eats at the corner of my vision until her orange shirt is the last thing I see... in the house on the end of the cul-de-sac.