Page 22 of Madness Blooms
He’s the lead guitarist of a band called Razorblade Serenade—a dark, moody unit that’s nothing more than a crappy imitation of Bauhaus and The Cure. He manipulates his girlfriend when he wants sex, not understanding the meaning of boundaries. And then ignores every one of her emotional needs to fuck someone else on the side. Usually girls of a much younger subset, most often his barely legal fans enamored with his shitty band.
Norman is also a sadistic little shit who enjoys running over animals for fun and believes that quoting Hunter S. Thompson without any nuance makes him intellectually superior.
Bunny is halfway down the stairs when the phone rings. “I’ll get it!” she says, jogging as fast as she can in her ankle boots, and answers the call. “Hello.” A brief pause. “Oh, hey Kyla. When are you guys heading over?”
I turn down the TV slightly and eavesdrop on the conversation. I can’t quite make out what’s being said on the other side of the line, but judging by the look on Bunny’s face, she seems pleased.
“Alright, we’re pretty much ready to go. See you soon. Bye!” She hangs up and heads for the kitchen.
I quirk a brow as I hear her search through the cupboards—but it isn’t hard to guess what she’s doing. “Is it okay to mix vodka with your medication?” I ask, feigning concern.
I no longer have to ply her with alcohol; she does it all on her own.
“It’s fine,” she replies, and I imagine her waving away the concern with her hand, just like she did the last time we talked about this. “I just need something to take the edge off. You know me. I don’t like crowds.”
I wonder if she has always been skittish, or if a lifetime of invalidation and trauma has led to her neurosis.
Returning to the living room with a drink in hand, she sits on the couch and kisses me on the cheek. “You worry too much about it. I appreciate it, but I’m a big girl. I’ll be okay.”
No, you won’t be.“When are your friends coming?” I ask, changing the channel to something more palatable for her sensitive disposition.
“They’ll be swinging around to pick us up in about twenty minutes,” she says, knocking back her drink. “You don’t think my outfit is too much, do you?” Standing up, she does a twirl, her face rosy with more than just make-up.
I have a basic understanding of fashion, enough to help me blend in with society and adapt when necessary. After researching, I discovered that the nightclub’s dress code isn’t super strict. As long as you don’t look like you just rolled out of bed and try to look presentable, you should be fine. Bunny wears a fitted skirt, a strappy top, and sheer tights.
All black. Perhaps my style is starting to influence her.
“No, no. You look great.” I smile, painting on a veneer of adoration. “So don’t worry your pretty little head. Tonight will be fun.”
Fun for me, at least—but definitely not for Briar. Because this birthday will be anunforgettableone.
I’ll make sure of that.
In Briar’s two-door sports coupe, Bunny and I were crammed in the backseat like sardines, enduring the torture of listening to his band’s god-awful demo tape on the way to Hillwood. Thankfully,Kylaspared us the prolonged agony by slipping in an album by Nine Inch Nails while Briar stopped at a gas station. This made the rest of the trip much more bearable.
I could hear and feel the deafening sound of bass vibrations coming from the club practically a mile away. As we pulled into the crowded parking lot, Bunny latched onto my arm, radiating anxiety.
We join the queue, which, despite its length, is moving at a reasonable pace. Bunny stays close to me, seeking comfort from the slight chill in the air. Kyla adjusts her sporty maxi skirt and folds her arms across her chest, while Briar is too preoccupied drooling over a girl in a tight crop top to pay attention to his surroundings.
This really won’t be much of a challenge, will it?I already stashed my equipment near the alleyway earlier today. All I need to do is lure the stupid fuck there and take out the trash.
Eventually, we reach the entrance. The bouncer, an expectantly burly and intimidating specimen of a person, frowns at us, a no-nonsense look on his face. We flash our IDs, pay the cover fee, and he waves us inside the loud and bustling club.
Throngs of bodies sway about the dance floor as a remix of a popular song vibrates through the speakers. Rainbow lights arc and spin across sweaty skin and gaudy apparel. Someone also turned the fog machine on a bit too high, but no one seems to be bothered by it. I glimpse Bunny; a familiar glumness has descended upon her.
“Want to get a drink?” I ask, intertwining my fingers with hers.
“Yeah,” she answers.
I can barely hear her over the music. Perfect; this will make tonight’s mission even easier to accomplish. I lead her to the bar where there are plenty of people ordering drinks. We sit on the cushy seats in front of the counter, and I signal to the bartender. “I’d like a white port and tonic, please.” Gotta keep it light. Not only do I have business to attend to, but they also suckered me into being the designated driver.
Fine by me, I think.
“I’ll take a Queen Elizabeth,” Bunny says.
The bartender nods and prepares our drinks with precision and speed. He slides the glasses to us and then attends to the many customers shouting orders from every direction. I raise my glass to Bunny, and we clink them together in a toast.
“Bottoms up,” I say, taking a gulp.