Being Eighteen - Extract

- o f f e n s i v e s l u r s -

❝ ＳＯＭＥＴＨＩＮＧ ＴＥＮＤＥＲＬＹ ＨＵＭＡＮＥ ＳＨＯＴ ＦＲＯＭ ＴＨＥ ＵＮＤＥＲＢＥＬＬＹ ＯＦ ＤＲＵＮＫ ＭＩＮＤＳ ❞

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HE GRIMACED AS he made his way between gyrating bodies, cringed as layered sweat came in contact with the bare skin of his palms.

It was intoxicating, the air, clouded under marijuana blankets that pumped along to obnoxiously loud music. Something thick and desirable swarmed over him, defiantly stuck in the tousled reserves of his dark hair.

And the scent of unadulterated sex and straight Vodka encased him.

He had managed to let Lucia coerce him into attending the post-grad party for St. Kitts and Nevis High; which was a feat his cousin was abnormally particularly proud of.

Seniors were half clad in clothes, letting slip the milky flesh that bore freckles and inky tattoos; each showing off with practised ease.

This was a subtle type of beauty. Something tenderly humane shot from the underbelly of drunken minds; spilt darkened secrets into ears now open – but in the tired daylight of the morning would soon be closed, memories long forgotten; done away with.

"Izzy, my bro! You came?"

Lucia McKenna was one of those unfair people. One of those perfect people that played football outside of school and was bound for success in a good sports University. He was one of those people who had friends outside of social media that loved and adored his every move.

And worst of all, he was one of those charitable people - those nice people. The kind of people that were hard to hate, because they were just so good hearted.

Isaiah grinned in what was admittedly shameful glee at the pure mess his cousin looked.

One hand was curled around an empty bottle of Heineken, fingers pressed red and knuckles drawing white with the force he was clutching at the glass.

"Yeah, unfortunately. I had nothing to do since the flat's empty without you. Hey," Isaiah made wild gestures with his hands, letting his teeth chatter. "It's brick in here."

Lucia howled with unnecessary laughter, drawing unwanted attention from passers-by and nearby drunken dancers with dripping, yellow eyes. Isaiah thought the boy looked like a madman instead of a respected member of society, but went with it and giggled slightly.

"You've been hanging around those Empire Staters far too much, dear cousin of mine. What's the camera for?"

Isaiah glanced at the camera that was nestled on his chest; out of harm's way - and shrugged. Lucia's words had been unmistakably slurred, the syllables rolling over each vowel and slipping off his tongue in earnest to escape his mouth.

A mouth that no doubt tasted of dried vomit and Heineken swirled in Vodka.

"The school needed a relatively cheap photographer, and I'm their guy." He tried not to gag mid-speech as the unfiltered residue of tequila and tangy vomit invaded his senses.

The hall was a hazy mess of spiked punch and predigested drugs, and Isaiah spun in slow circles, tried to take everything in through the lens of his DSLR. Tacky silver stars made of cheap tinsel grew down from the ceiling in waves just short of brushing everyone's heads, the floor was a bleached hardwood birch coated in teenage desperation and sexed up fantasies.

So, Isaiah pushed the black hair from his wet forehead, all things the school would have a fit over if they saw.

He turned the camera, peered into the illuminated gloom as neon light filled the screen. In the far left corner, behind glass tables filled with trampled food and lined up bottles of pure spirits, someone had hung a line of obnoxiously green string lights that wrapped across the wall.

A fort of blankets, chairs and pillows had been diabolically planned and made up in front of the lights, where empty souls lay.

If Isaiah stepped closer, he could see from the camera's slight glare the discarded bottle of tequila they had all gathered around - like it was some sort of statue to their god.

A slight shiver trickled down his spine, and yet he continued on to the group of swaying bodies, watched as glowing green eyes gazed upon the spinning bottle.

He sat beside someone he didn't know, ignored the blank stares.

Isaiah realised he didn't know any of the gaunt faces and sunken eyes that glared at him.

The bottle spun.

It stopped.

On him. The glowing green eyes watched on eagerly, watched as someone stepped from the inky darkness that had surrounded the fort, watched with hints of amusement and disgust as that someone was a boy.

All of a sudden Isaiah's camera hung heavily in his left hand, and he lowered it to watch along with the other empty husks.

"Sinclair, you're not actually going to kiss the faggot, are you?" A husk spoke.

Isaiah hid behind his veil of thickened hair, frowned, and chewed on the inside of his cheek. He wasn't a...he wasn't gay. Something along the lines of bi-curious. And yet that didn't stop him from watching the stranger advance, towering well above everyone else that was standing.

He was dressed in simple cashmere, a black turtleneck and dark jeans that bore enlarged holes; showed off the milky expanse of his thighs and rosy hue of his knees. He smiled toothily.

Isaiah couldn't help but think it was the most gorgeous thing he'd seen since the corpse of his Mom's evil cat, Mc Puddles.

Isaiah didn't know what was happening, all he heard was his heart trying to escape from behind his ribcage, all he felt was the way his fingers gripped onto the tanned skin of his arms. The scent of blood, copper-like and pungent, was the only thing stopping him from ripping the flesh to threads.

"Hey."

The stranger was blond.

How Isaiah had missed that, he didn't know. The blond bordered on a sort of white, a platinum mop that had been trimmed at the side of his ears but left to gather delightfully in his face. The hair obscured the boy's eyes as he grinned lazily.

"Sinclair J. Mullaney, at your service."

"Oi, Mullaney that sounded fairly sexual there, mate. What kind of service do you offer?"

Sinclair threw a finger in the direction of the voice.

"Fuck off, Howell."

Howell - Dan, Isaiah's mind supplied - made a noise of contempt, spread his lanky body across some other dude that was busy on his phone. Dan's hair was a decidedly nice shade of chocolate brown.

Isaiah was very aware that he was just sitting there by the left hand of the fort, pressed against pillows and soft duvets; held under the intoxicating spell of Sinclair Mullaney.

"You do understand that we have to kiss right? So it's only good manners you grace me with your name before I brutally attack your lips." The blond had a drawl that blurrily resembled Lucia's drunken slurs, husky and deep that reared from his chest.

Everything was moving too fast.

Isaiah stopped breathing and stayed that way as scents of fresh pine and musky rainfall enveloped him in an icy hug. His mind whirled heavily as cold hands, soft and sporting fingers the length of oceans, gripped the space between his throat and his shoulders.

"I - Isaiah." The raven haired boy managed to spit out. At least he thought that was his name.

He couldn't have been too sure with the way the world was spinning around him, swirling at his feet and sliding over his skin in brisk brushes of reality.

Sinclair seemed to be an ethereal being in this state of mind, the scorching heat of his ivory skin, free of blemishes, not even a freckle or birthmark dotted the pale flesh, was messing with Isaiah's body.

"Isaiah." The blond exhaled ashy scents of smoke and a world full of Vodka, his grin spreading slowly across the eves of his face. "Isaiah Fannet?"

The heavens fell.

His heart stopped midway up his throat, and Isaiah suddenly felt cold. The fact that Sinclair J. Mullaney, someone he had never met before in his life, knew exactly who he was, was something short of terrifying.

Fingers dug into surface veins of his neck, nails dipping into soft skin and drawing blood to the epidermis of his flesh. That beautiful grin was now all gaping hole and hot, tepid mouth, glistening teeth winking like ghostly eyes in the dark.

"Isaiah Fannet, basically Isaiah the Faggot."

"Isaiah's Fanny." Stressed laughter. "As if Sinclair was going to even touch his gay mouth."

The husks' whispers were quiet at first, barely above breaths that drew like feathers across his cheeks, but they soon grew.

Isaiah couldn't breathe. His palms felt sweaty and far too small as they tightened around Sinclair's wrists.

Laughter swarmed him.

The blue haze of freshly smoked weed drifted in and out of his vision. Fingers stuck into veins, and soon Isaiah was screaming over the chants. It hurt, it all hurt and he was starting to wonder when God - a being he hadn't believed in since he was 12 - was going to take him.

He was filled with flashing eyes, gaping mouths and grins that split faces into jagged halves. His heart stopped. The world paused.

Were breaths meant to feel so short? His head was a murky temple of waters that convulsed and arched, a temple in which his thoughts went to die.

And his body a prison in which his soul begged to be free of.

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