THC Club

Willow

I stare at Liam’s name on the screen of my phone, and decide to get back to him when my guilt has died down, but there’s nothing to feel guilty about. He is now married, and Professor Brown basically called me delusional for calling him my boyfriend.

When I get up, I take a shower with the intention to get out of here before Professor Brown wakes up. I find a note from him in the living room about him catching his flight early. Great, we are both avoiding each other.

When I get to my apartment, I spend hours trying to sleep, but I feel so many emotions all at once that I just spend hours crying. Marcel is gone, my research for his cure has been for nothing, I’m going through a break-up, and my only remaining family hates me.

It doesn’t take long for me to find a dress in my closet that I can wear to a club. The short black bodycon dress is “sexy” according to Claire, and it is one of the nicest things she has ever given me.

The THC club is midnight dark and illuminated by neon lights. People are dancing, there’s kissing, and smoke that is enough to fill the entire city. The smoke makes me cough, and I look around for a place where I will have the possibility of not speaking to anyone.

I head to the bar, the staring eyes making me feel like a lamb in a lion’s den.

“Hi, baby girl. What do you drink?” A large man in a black t-shirt sits on my right as soon as I sit down.

I sigh. “I just wanted to be sad and alone,” I mumble.

“Baby girl?” He raises a single eyebrow.

“I drink Long Island,” I smile politely.

“We also got weed for you. It’s the best you’ll ever find.” Another guy appears on my left. He has curly chestnut hair, and he seems nice.

“Dude, you heard the lady. Give her what she wants and put it on my tab.” The black t-shirt says to the barman.

“Coming right up, sir.”

“I will pay for my drink.” I give the barman the $20 bill.

“I will be your weed supplier.” The curly guy says, delicately holding a fancy wrapped weed between his index and middle fingers.

I shake my head in response.

I ignore my two acquaintances, who are staring at me, while I take small sips of my cocktail.

“We also have limbicus,” the curly guy says.

“What?” I glare at him.

“Whoa! Sorry,” he raises his hands apologetically.

“You don’t take it?” Black t-shirt asks.

“No,” my grip on the glass tightens.

“Let’s go sit in a more comfortable place. I’m in a VIP section.” The curly guy grins and points at the place that is separated from the normal club by glass doors.

“I’m fine here.” I hiss, and he holds his hands up again, showing his surrender. When they realize that I have no intention of entertaining them, they leave.

I continue drinking as my mom and sister’s words about my selfishness replay in my mind. I’ve always felt like the ugly duckling of the family, and I’ve watched my mom try but struggle to maintain a relationship with me.

My brother and sister were always her favourites, the most successful international models. She always said they were following in her footsteps, because she was once ‘the beauty of the year’ in high school.

The more I take sips of the drink, the happier and less anxious I become, until I feel different. This time, I feel like my head is carrying the entire planet, and I struggle to move. I just close my eyes while sitting on the barstool to stop my head from spinning, but it doesn’t stop.