Page 5 of Don't Watch Alone
“Tony...?” My voice comes out a bit shaky. No answer.
My headache intensifies. The whole scene is blurry and spins. I squint, trying to lock onto his face, but it’s like trying to catch shadows.
I reach out towards him. My hands are shaking like hell. I touch his arm—cold, damp. I lean in and place my hand near his nose.
Warm breath.
I feel relief, but followed by pure fear.
“Tony!” I yell, grabbing his shoulders, shaking him hard. “Wake the fuck up!”
He jerks awake, his eyes shooting open. “What?!”
“Where are we? What the hell happened last night?”
He flickers his eyelids, rubbing his face, still somewhat dreaming. “We’re at Christian’s. You passed out after we talked about going to the movies or something.I dunno.”
I drop back into the pillow. My head feels like it’s splitting apart. Passed out? Me? Bullshit. I don’t just black out. I don’t drink that much, I don’t lose control. Ever.
Christian’s. Right. I remember the noise, the beer, the nonstop talking. But it’s all patchy, like trying to watch a movie with the power going on and off.
Why the hell would I have passed out?
The thought creeps in me: Someone slipped me something.
I look at Tony. No way. He wouldn’t. He’s dumb sometimes, but never cruel.
But if it wasn’t him… who?
And why?
The thought turns my stomach. Tony’s passed back out, snoring like a busted chainsaw, stinking of stale beer. It clings to him like a damn second skin. How the hell did I let it go this far? Another night down the drain, another bad decision soaked in cheap booze. I’ve gotta get home, wash this night off me, scrub away the smell, the mistakes, the parts of me I don’t wanna see.
Electric Avenue’s calling my name. Greg will chew me out if I’m even a second late. One o’clock is the line—show up or get the boot. And Greg? Patience ain’t one of his accessories, especially not when it comes to his sacred store.
I ghost out the door, leaving Tony to his beer-soaked dreams. Guilt tries to creep in, tapping at my ribs, but I shut it out. Survival mode. I need to pull it together, salvage something from the wreckage.
Jade’s nowhere around. No clue how she got home, or if she even made it. I’ll call her later. Maybe. Right now, it’s tunnel vision—get to Electric Avenue.
The city air slaps me awake. I fumble for my keys, slide into the car, and hit the road. Lights blur past—red, green, yellow—like a damn arcade game gone wrong. My brain’s a loop of get it together, get it together. Gotta stop spinning out like this.
The apartment’s a disaster. Laundry’s winning the war in the living room, dishes stackedlike some broken monument to chaos. No time to care.
Clothes off. Shower on. The water hits me hard, and I take it. I scrub like I’m trying to erase the night. The smell, the sweat, the shame—it all swirls down the drain.
Steam pours out as I step onto the tile, still damp, but a little more me. I grab the blow dryer, fight my hair into something wild and loud. Volume cranked. Drama dialed in. Big hair, big fuck-you to the world.
Then the fit. Neon pink and electric blue jumpsuit, loud enough to stop traffic. Snagged it from the backroom stash at the shop. Bolt earrings dangle like lightning on the edge of chaos. I’m a walking riot of color and noise.
I stare into the mirror. One word: Bitchin’. That’s my message to the world—I’m still standing. Greg can deal. Regret can wait. I grab my bag, slam the door, and hit the pavement like a live wire, buzzing, pulsing, ready to own every inch of Electric Avenue.
The November air nips at my exposed skin as I cut across the massive parking lot, navigatingbetween rows of faded parking lines and half-frozen puddles. Each gust carries the sharp edge of winter, cutting through my jacket no matter how tightly I pull it around me. The mall appears ahead, the store windows flash with rebellion—mannequins dressed in wild neons and layered denim, clashing against the dull sky. I push forward; the wind pushing back harder.
The automatic doors open, and I’m hit by a blast of artificial cinnamon and recycled air. Greg’s already present, of course—standing near the register like he’s been molded from concrete, staring at his watch as if time itself personally offends him.
“I’m literally a minute early,” I say, not exactly apologetic. My voice echoes in the nearly empty storefront, but Greg just turns and walks away like he didn’t hear me—or like he just doesn’t give a shit. Business as usual.
I head to the back and clock in, the punch of the timecard oddly satisfying, like I’ve just signed a contract with the day. When I step back onto the floor, the store is a burstof bright colors. Racks crammed full, clothes screaming for attention. A fresh shipment must’ve come in—there’s a whole wall now dedicated to fluorescent-pink jumpsuits.
