Ah, flatwarming parties. You're eighteen. You've just moved out from the parental home, you've moved on to bigger, better things, and you've invited all your friends. They've brought some friends of their own, which you didn't know, but that's all right, all that shit your parents used to say about "the more, the merrier"? Seems it's true after all. The party's going to be great. You know that. The music is great. It's extremely loud, just as it should be, and it's great. The booze is flowing like there's no tomorrow so who cares if we all end up in a coma? Everybody's shouting, everybody's singing, everybody's having a hell of a good time.
It's now 2:15 a.m. The party is in full swing. Your old neighbour is cursing you, your spawn, and their own offspring. She's just put earplugs in for the first time in her life. At least, she already had them, and they're funky coloured. But still. It's a funny feeling, sensing one's heart beating inside of one's own skull. She's feeling connected to you in some way, now. Surely that music you're listening to is pulsing inside your throat in much the same way.
Morning is going to come soon. Much sooner than you expect. Her tapes will then be blaring out some unspeakable 80's tunes.
You'll be sorry.
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