The truth is, I want to be hurt.
The red plastic cup of beer in my hand is damp and sweating. The bass is pounding so loudly I can feel it vibrating inside my veins. My shirt is sticking to my skin along my spine, my skin tired and dewy and angry. God, I hate my life.
My head is spinning, but I'm not tired. I am so very, very alive. My pulse is buzzing and my fingers are twitching: I need to do something. Someone. I need this wild energy inside me to be calmed. I need this raw hatred to be sucked out of me. I am too angry. I am too alive—too alive for a girl who's dead inside.
I brush my hair—long, glossy, the color of sunlight on water—out of my eyes and head to the bathroom to freshen up. It smells like vomit and sadness. I splash icy water on my wrists and wipe off the smudged mascara under my eyes. I look at the girl staring out of the mirror at me: enormous navy eyes smudged with inky kohl, a delicate half-teardrop nose, lips so full and flushed they don't need lipstick, and luminescent milky skin. A pretty face. A face I despise. The body that goes with it is slender, with that same moonlit skin, long legs, a flat stomach, perky breasts, a smattering of small black tattoos. I hate it too.
I want to be hurt. I want my soul to feel as alive as my body.
I walk out of the bathroom, adjusting my short black leather skirt and look around at the hollow, paper-doll creatures that dance and laugh and flirt around me. I hate them.
I walk out into the cool, dark alley. The night wind greets my face like a slap. The chilly air rushes into my lungs like its trying to drown me. I throw my head against the wall a little too hard, hard enough to make my eyes water. Ugh. I need to get out of here. I need to go somewhere.
The quiet, nasty voice in the back of my mind perks up at the looming danger of the dark alley. I want to be hurt, it hisses again.
I start to walk. My shoes—caged leather booties with five inch heels—aren't exactly cut out for the job: my feet are aching within minutes. I relish the pain. It distracts me from the pain in my head.
In the tiny, narrow street ahead, I see the glowing butts of lit cigarettes. Four of them. My body screams at me: danger, stop. I approach the figures easily.
Three men, probably not much older than my nineteen years. Handsome enough, wearing clothes that show that they care, but not too much. Eyes that are just a bit too alive. Perfect.
"Hey, baby," one of them croons at me. His smile is crooked, devilish, disarming.
"Hey," I gasp back, out of breath.
"What's your name, kitten?"
"Kate."
"Pretty name for a pretty girl."
I nod. I don't want to talk. I want to be fucking hurt. I look around at the other men. Their faces are interested, a little lecherous.
"What're you doing around here by yourself, baby?" It's another man speaking. The tallest one.
"Yeah, it's not safe here," the blonde one chimes in.
"You might run into danger," the first man finishes. His smile is predatory.
"I'll be more careful," I answer, although it's a lie. My palms are sweating. I'm starting to wonder if I'm getting myself in over my head here.
The first man—the leader, the alpha—touches my cheek with the back of one of his hands. "Maybe we can take care of you, baby."
"Maybe." My voice is wary.
His hand trails down my neck and rests on my shoulder. "Do you know who walks these streets at night, love? Not nice girls."
"No," I agree.
"Whores," he says. "Slutty little girls looking for men like us. Naughty girls. Are you a naughty girl, baby?"
"No," I whisper.
"I bet you are," the blonde man interjects.
"Let's find out," the tallest one suggests.
