PARTY AT A FRIEND'S
Saturday. August 17th. 2019.
The wooden door creaks open, a female rapper goes off, her bars sneaks plays upstairs in a muffled noise. No one is in the basement, I close the door to the studio with my back. Tears stream down my hot cheeks, I need to brush my teeth. My Chanel pink dress is disheveled, mink coat unraveling off my bruised shoulder. I go pass the bar to the curved staircase. Slowly, my feet stomp up the carpeted steps, sobs breaking through my straight face. I wipe my eyes before I enter the short hall.
A lot of important people crowd the living room and kitchen. They talk amongst themselves with red plastic cups. To my left is the garage, right leads to the party. My eyes scan for a certain black boy, but I don't dare to go any further than the corner. A pain aches in my chest, I turn around and leave out the garage. The door is open, I pass through a black Mustang and a red Viper. I have to walk across the front grass to get to my car down the street. It's cold, my bare legs are shivering. My black fur boots clomp on the concrete towards the Challenger SRT.
Her name is Demoness, she's black with a horizontal red strip on the sides. When I put the keys in, she roars to life. Miley Cyrus' 'Slide Away' is playing, not even the brand new song could uplift me. Before Josheas' party, I was in my highest state, happy to celebrate one of my best friend's debut album. Now, I want to die.
It's an hour to my mansion in Grosse Pointe. I cry and scream the whole way there. I'm over the speed limit, not caring about any cops. After Miley plays some alternate metal like Banshee. Spotify gets my current mood, I'm able to sing along with the rough vocals. The pain endorphins kick in, somehow I feel euphoric.
My mansion is a restored, English manor designed by Alfred Hopkins. The manor has a stucco exterior, three floors, a two-story library with a barrel ceiling, and guest suites. I have a quaint courtyard with an original garden by Ellen Middle Shioman. The mansion sits on the corner of Lincoln Road, conveniently close to my old high school, South Grosse Pointe. I park Demoness next to my twin brother's black Jeep Wrangler in the four-car garage and go inside my manor.
The sunroom was nearest to the garage, situated in the back of the house. Windows are on all of the walls, beige curtains cover the moonlight. I fall on the metal couch and stare at the ceiling. It's quiet, Sevastyan must be asleep. It is almost nine, I know he expected me to be home later. Tears fall again, the memories replay in my mind.
I don't remember when I woke up because I never went to sleep. It's finally warming up in here, I was shivering all night. These thin cushions do nothing to soften the metal bench beneath me. I'm still in my dress, the mink coat kept me warm. The sunlight brushes my face through the curtains. I'm still in the same state.
I wish I was in my own room upstairs, my safe space, but I didn't have the energy to climb up stairs. I'm envisioning myself entangled in my thick, red blanket on my foam queen mattress with my Shih Tzu-Pomeranian, Diamandis Jo. I'd be waking up to the warm smile of Janet Jackson, or—if I'm on the other side of the bed—the stone stare of Kanye West. I'd fumble out of bed and kick over thongs and lace bras scattered on the wooden floor. My room has a living space, a fireplace, and a walk-in closet that leads to a bathroom. I'll be cursing to the higher gods that I have to endure another day of public school. If I'm up early enough, I'd hop on our MacBook and work on a new song. Usually, my twin brother, Sevastyan, would be awake and join along.
I wipe my eyes with a deep sigh. My back settles back into the couch as if I didn't have to be at church right soon. Sevastyan and I are suppose to sing. I told Mom this party wouldn't affect our plans. To miss church now would trigger a load of questions I'd rather not answer. My dual-colored eyes roll as I flip over to reach for my phone somewhere. It's not in here, I must've left it in the car.
"Fuck." I groan. The memories flash in a fury. Heat starts to rise up my chest. I clench my knuckles, shut my eyes, and release the heat with a deep breath. Slowly, I inhale in and out, allowing the building adrenaline to cease. I felt a little calmer, so I stood up. Soon as I did, a shot of pain shoots up my back from my ass. My muscles were solid, achy. I nearly tumble when I start to walk. When I reach the wooden, split staircase, I held onto the handle for support.
Dj instantly leaps off the bed when I enter my room. She sits around my feet and stands on her hind legs. I pick her up, giving her many kisses as she does to me. The iconic eyes of my numerous posters all watch me. Usually, I don't care, but at the moment I'm feeling alienated in my own space. There are too many memories in here, it's too fresh of a wound to process and move on. I pass the cluttered hanger of designer clothes into my bathroom. DJ jumps out of my arms and sniffs around the floor.
In the mirror, I pull off the dress, seeing the scars of my early angst. There's vertical cuts mark up my thighs, healed from the time that passed. I shouldn't be so hesitant to look at my own body. No one should. However I am once I see the bruises. They're around my wrists, shoulders, waist, and chest. I feel my bare skin, my panties are missing. It's just me and the stranger in the mirror. I break away from the dead gaze and plop on the toilet seat.
I must've been there for a while. A knock at my door snaps me out of dissociation. "Vella?" A voice calls from behind. "You in there?"
"Yeah!" I shout back, lowering my head once more. The door opens and footsteps ascend into the bathroom. Sevastyan stands there in confusion.
"What are you doing?" He tilts his unnaturally blonde hair; it's cut short to his neck with highlights. Like mine, his skin was a light chocolate color, blemished with freckles. It's like looking into an advanced carnival mirror. His right eye is brown while the left is blue. Mine are the same colors, but switched. There are moles on his face and a gap between his upper teeth. We look exactly the same, the only difference are our hormone levels and eye color placement.
"Shitting." I look up. "What does it look like I'm doing?" I stare at him. I wasn't actually shitting, he could smell it.
"It looks like you're crying." He said low.
"I'm not crying!" I yell. "I'm fine, Vash."
"Are you?" He comes closer, sitting on the bathtub. "We're going to be late for church."
"I'm not going." I fold my arms under my small breasts.
"Why not?"
"I'm just tired. Isn't that enough?"
He pinches the corner of his lip into his mole. "Mom wants us to sing, Vella. This was suppose to be our way of showing people we're not maniacs."
"I don't care what Mom wants or what people think. I'm staying home."
"Why, Vella?" He urges his words. "What's wrong?"
I gaze up to him and break into tears. "Fuck!" My hands cover my face. "I can't believe this shit happened." My leg starts to shake.
"What happened?" He sits up. "Was it bad?"
I chuckle a sob. "It was terrible, Vash!" I remove my hands and look him in the eyes. "Vince was there… at the party."
Darkness grew in his eyes. "He was?"
"Yeah." I whimper. "Josheas invited him. He said that he's his friend too."
"What happened, Vella?" He leans in.
I choke on my tears. "Josheas wanted me to talk to him, rekindle our relationship, I guess. He made me feel bad by saying we ruined our friendship by dating." My eyes lower. "I didn't know Vince's producers were going to be in there. We talked for a little bit, then…" I gasp an inhale, "he ripped my clothes off. Vince raped me, Vash." My head lifts. "His producers, too. They took turns on me. I cried and fought as hard as I could, but they overpowered me. There were four alphas against me." My lip shakes. "I can't…" Sevastyan hugs me tightly. He buries his chin into my neck and squeezes.
"I'm going to kill him."
"No, you're not."
"I am." He pulls away. "We're calling the police."
"Sevastyan, I can't do that. It'll be a fucking media circus." I exhale the words.
"Are you kidding?" His face tenses. "That fucker raped you! I'm not fucking around, we're calling the cops and his ass is going to jail." Sevastyan stands up and storms to the door. "Put some clothes on. We're going to the station to make a report."
"Sevastyan, please…"
"Isavella, get dressed." He commands me with his deep voice. His face suddenly softens. "I won't tell Mom."
I smile weakly. "She'll find out. Everyone will."