What Truly Matters

Even before my flatscreen flew out the window, or the black out curtains in the living room caught fire, way before the cream tiles next to the bathtub were massacred by the weight of broken ceramic falling in a massive chunk or my hair was caught up in a bubble gum love affair -- ahead of all this, Rachel Monroe had already bled to death on my stark white chaise lounge.

Now let me tell you something: this piece was a true furniture masterpiece, the kind that was welcoming and snug with a magnetic spirit that accentuated the essence of a bedroom's true authentic self by simply being there.

It was tragic really, my poor sofa - destroyed - but I should've known it was only the beginning.

Of the end.

But I suppose the end really truly began almost 15 years ago, on a day about as disastrous as this one.

I'd only recently lost my father, he'd eloped with a "floozy" from down the road who may or may not have been my best friend's mother, leaving behind a shit ton of baggage for me and a shit ton of bills to pay for my mum who only had two broken marriages and one pre-teen in the name of formal education.

That year, I'd worn her old tatty clothes and reused last year's notebooks, but that's besides the point.

The point is that even when we were scavenging empty cabinets for every single morsel of food, my mother wanted me to not only have a cake for my birthday but also celebrate it like my ex-best friend turned nemesis Jenna Jenkins did, who's mother's departure had only made her even more loved and popular. The world adores a true tragic heroine in the midst of the Middle-Of-Nowhere.

And so, I not only had the pleasure of having a frosting-less cake for my birthday, but my mum also invited my entire class.

To a party.

At the Musty Meyer's Maggot Mansion. AKA our house.

Even before we were the Musty Meyer's and our Maggot Mansion was but a simple townhouse on the cul-de-sac, in those days when I actually had a couple of friends and a social status besides the skunk in dinosaur clothes, I'd hated parties like they were the bane of my existence.

Social interactions besides the bare minimum? Retch.

But, of course, the final nail in the party coffin happened when, after calling every third kid and their mums to my Thrifty Thirteenth Birthday Bash -- as my mother called it -- she had to pickup an extra shift at the grocery store due to a series of unfortunate events and, of course, miss out on the celebrations.

And yet I waited and waited. Camping in front of the burning candles dripping hot pink wax onto the dry surface of my birthday cake, I kept waiting and waiting, for the doorbell to ring, for the flashes of pretty party fabrics and chummy happy smiles to sparkle their way into my vicinity, to look better than my dollar store dress and huckery old grin could only dream of looking, and so I continued waiting for someone.

Anyone.

And I waited till my eyes and legs were sore and the only proof of the birthday candles were the clusters of dried wax and the darkness that accompanied the death of those flames.

Needless to say I'd sworn off such parties and social gatherings for the rest of my life, which had nothing to do with nobody ever inviting me anyway and everything to do with my steely resolve and devotion to my cause.

Right now, as I watch the skinny guy with half moon glasses bend over himself and throw up all over my fuzzy carpet, I regret everything that had transpired in the last 24 hours.

Could I have stopped this night from happening? I had stopped myself before; from the occasional dinner parties with the extended family to the meet-ups with acquaintances, and the bars and restaurants that those I knew frequented and obviously the weddings, not that I'd been invited to any. Yet.

I'd even managed to avoid the infamous frat parties all throughout my college stint, even when they were so loud the walls in my dorm room would reverberate.

I could've avoided this. I should've avoided this. I had tried to avoid this. But did I really?

The skinny guy is choking on his own puke and I pat his sweat drenched back whilst trying to remember what his name is. Not that it matters. None of this actually matters.

I wonder what truly matters then. Like, in life. And, in general.

I've turned a year older, and I'm steadily climbing the good old career ladder, I have my own house, a car, gorgeous furniture and I can afford a lot needless goodies.

And I wonder what matters. In the long run, the long haul, in the very end, when you look back and you see your life flash in front of you like grotesque abstract art, and you see yourself sitting in the middle of a vomit soaked rug as the men and women around you get high on anything and everything they can get their hands on, moaning and sulking, angry crying, or laughing at stories they've heard a bajillion times and telling stories they've told a bajillion times and it's an out of body experience but the finale-kind, like, oh shit, I'm out of this body that I was in before, not even moments ago, and I can probably never get back in this body again and a voice in the back of your head says, good riddance, but that voice is quashed by the banshee wails of the people gathered near your already ravaged bathroom, and the very next moment you're staring at Rick Moriarty, taking a bath in your broken tub, his ashy head underwater. Now also accompanied with an ashy face.

Someone throws up behind me, and I turn around to find this one girl burst into tears and run out of the room. And I've had enough. What the hell. What the actual hell.

"What the fuck are you guys doing in my house," it's a rhetorical question because I'm an adult and adults don't want to know shit about shit, they already know enough to last them a lifetime, thank you very much.

"You invited us," this guy, Ryan, tall, fit and loud, says, bringing the bottle of rum to his mouth, "We're here for your birthday,"

"That's not what I mean," I seethe, "This! What the hell is this? You've destroyed my house and now, this!"

3 pairs of clueless eyes stare back at me, some of them wet with tears and others red with intoxication.

The half moon man steps forward, green eyes glistening beneath his glasses, "We're sorry your party is going so bad,"

I shake my head. The florescent lighting flickers over us as I contemplate what to do next.

Rachel Monroe is still in my bedroom, a blood drenched note clutched between her fingers. Rick's head is still underwater. My head wants to crawl under my duvet and go to sleep. But I can't do that before all of them are gone. I have to call 911. Why did I agree to this? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

"We were all having so much fun, and now this--" Riya, who's last name escapes me, says, breaking me out of my reverie, "I knew they were unhappy with things and all but they shouldn't have done this at your house, not on your birthday,"

"Exactly" Ryan chimes in, a glint in his eyes, "Why must they trouble the very cause of their troubles?"

"Ryan!"

Riya smacks him on his arm and I, having had enough of them already, push my way from in between them and pick up my phone from the kitchen counter. A large crack on the screen greets me and I fling it across the floor.

My patience is running thin, my heartbeat is racing and I need a drink. I need the cops. I need them out of my house but I can see my mother glaring at me at the very thought of throwing guests out so I shut up and sulk.

And I sulk, and sulk and sulk. I can't throw them out but I can drink, so I rush towards the open bar and I see that it's empty. Barren. Sparse. Just like my body, just like my mind.

"Looking for this?" Ryan walks up to me, two glasses in his hand, a smirk on his face.

He's handsome, if you're into the whole Gaston Big-Bulk-Zero-Brains look. And tonight, I'm definitely not.

"Not really, thank you," I squeeze past him, but I stop as my eyes lock with the girl who'd rushed out crying. And gooseflesh breaks out on my skin. I'm panicking. I'm terrified. The look in her eyes...

"You did this," she whispers, "You did that to the man I love!"

My mouth is dry, my breathing are laboured and her eyes are crazy, "What did I do?"

"You killed him!" She screams, "You, with your bullshit. It was your idea to invite us, to rehash things that were better buried, you did that, you killed him, you drove him over the edge,"

Her eyes are red, her face is red, her body is shaking with rage. And red.

My back hits Ryan and he steadies me with his hands.

"Listen Raven, I know you're hurt but--" Ryan is saying when half moon exits the bathroom and becomes a deer-caught-in-headlight when he sees her.

Even before he's falling to his knees or his throat is gushing ounces of blood, before Riya also exits the bathroom to meet a similar fate, and definitely before the girl, Raven, starts trudging towards me after finishing them off, I'm already running.

I run to the walk-in shoe closet behind me, Ryan hot on my heels, and I try to shut the door in his face but he manages to struggle his way in.

I know crazy when I see it. The last time I'd seen it was when they took my mother away.

"What the hell is wrong with her,"

"The love of her life died," Ryan says, and the venom in his voice makes me turn, "Bet you don't know what love feels like, do you trailer trash,"

I feel faint, I can almost feel all the blood rush up to my chest where my heart is pounding so loud I can hear it pop in my ears.

That's when the banging on the door starts. And the shouting. And the profanities. It's my own fault. I shouldn't have invited them.

"You've never loved anyone except yourself, have you?" It's not the outside that I'm afraid of anymore, "So many people, dead, because of you"

This is not a nightmare. I almost wish it was. If only I could just wake up from this, in my bed, alone, no Rachel blood on my chaise, no puke on my rug, no Rick in the tub. If only I could just wake up from this. I can see myself on my chaise, a book clutched between my hands. I try to think about how it feels in my palms. The callous edges of the paper. I want to feel it cut through my fingertips. The blood, I want to feel it drip. Anything but this.

The banging continues. Loud and monotonous. I can feel it inside my head. Thud, thud, thud.

How did things go so wrong? How do I find myself in the midst of these people whom I don't even know anymore?

I can see it in their eyes. They hate me. They want to kill me. I'm finding it really hard to breathe in here.

I feel Ryan's fingers lace around my neck. My eyes are damp, I can feel the hot liquid gush down my cheeks. My head hurts, my body hurts, my stomach. A piercing pain slices through my gut but I can't look down. I can't breathe. I can only look in his eyes. And they hate me.

He yanks me towards him then, our lips meet, smooth and damp, the best kisser ever, "All you know is how to use things and then discard them,"

Memories they flood my head. The loud thuds mingling with recollections of all that has gone wrong and all that is going wrong.

"I was your boyfriend!" The pain in my stomach swells, it swells and spreads across my skin, I want it to stop, I want everything to stop, "You told stories about me, about us, and all those people, they were your friends. They're dead now. You killed them and we hate you,"

I want everything to stop. The noise in my head, the pain in my chest, the nausea, the memories, all of them. I want them to stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

"You're the Musty Maggot, you have no friends. No one likes you. You're a freak. Boys don't love freaks, they hate you."

"No, Jenna! I swear I have friends, I-I have a boyfriend too and he's the best kisser ever,"

"Bet they hate you, and want to kill you just like we do,"

They hate you and want to kill you. They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

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They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

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They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

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They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

They hate you and want to kill you.

Even before I realise that the noise in my ears is that of my own scream, or that the knife in my stomach is in my own hands, before the blood that splatters to the floor is accompanied by my knees, I already know that they hate me and want to kill me.

Just like I do. And so I did.

...

But God... He apparently wasn't having me anytime soon. So here I am, on a hospital bed, recovering from self-inflicted injuries ready to haul my ass down to the first psychiatrist I can get my hands around.

Because in the end what really matters isn't how you've lived your life or how many aches you've saved yourself from, what matters is if you've experienced the things you yearn to experience. And I'd really like to experience a real party for once. Thank you very much.