You don’t even pretend to be interested in the eyes that shoot in your direction as you walk into the highly prestigious club that your friends hauled you off to. You would much rather have spent the night in your small apartment, alone, with the radio just a little too loud and a sketchbook in your hands. However, your friend’s urged a more social atmosphere on you, claiming that it would be healthy to be around someone else besides the empty white walls of your home. When you think of healthy, you do not think of a large room filled with people dancing much too close, breathing in each other’s alcohol breath and later contracting some disease from reckless ual activity. That, to you, seems like the exact opposite of healthy.

The room is large though, themed with deep purple hues and leather furniture that you don’t dare go near, for fear of someone sliding in next to you and trying at a conversation that will undoubtedly lead to you scrambling away or threatening to file a restraining order. The air is filled with the smell of over priced perfume and bodies clashing against each other, which in reality isn’t even a scent, just the mentality of the atmosphere that you find yourself absolutely detesting; detesting the sound of singing and chanting to the tacky music, detesting the awkward feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you see someone you know you will never be able to speak to, detesting the way some people will look you over and instantly revolt at your sense of style. It isn’t even yours, really, you were dolled up by your so called friends.

Your friends who told you to wear the outfit they bought for you: Tight black leather pants tucked into (also black) laced boots that reach halfway up your calves, a studded belt hidden beneath your black tank top which is slightly visible beneath the “fashionable” torn up white tee they gave you that looks dirty and worn (it’s so large it even dangles off one shoulder); with accessories like countless black and white bracelets on each arm, and a long silver necklace wrapped twice around your neck and that dangled in the center of your chest, obnoxiously clanking against itself and causing you to stuff half of it in under the white tee so it will stop. You’re also wearing eyeliner, which you did yourself, and you’re not opposed to, and your hair is styled messily atop your head. Overall the look wasn’t even remotely close to being “you” in any way shape or form…

Speaking of your friends, they bustle their way into the dancing crowd after fruitlessly attempting to get you to join in, but you’re more suited to sit by yourself at the bar and avoid the stares you get from men who have had just a little too much to drink and are feeling experimental. You aren’t afraid to admit that you’re fairly feminine for a man, even if you don’t think yourself attractive in the slightest. Even still, you did not come here to socialize, let alone look for potential ual escapades.

After two drinks, you feel a presence slink into the chair next to you and you’re hands tense around the glass in your palm. The ice shifts and clinks against the crystal clear surface and you train your eyes on it determinedly, avoiding the stare of the man next to you. You absolutely know it’s a man, it has to be, and it’s too persistent not to be. You dare to steal a glance at the figure in your peripheral vision, and end up turning your head to get a better look.