The Emerging Writer Volume 1. | Page 9

your heart still races. Your legs carry you to the sink and your hand moves forward to turn on the tap. A cold stream splashes out. You rinse your face and spit the foul, bitter taste from your mouth. When you stand you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The face you see has worn down eyes which droop, framed by the wrinkles that ripple outwards. Like two stones thrown into a still pond. It looks tired. It looks sad. It’s not you. You look down to the reflection’s stomach, not yet showing but not far from it. Soon she’ll have to make a decision. She doesn’t have long. You look at her arm, five fingers burning on her flesh. Not dark enough for a bruise. It’ll fade. You walk out of the bathroom, back to the party. Back to the crowd. The sound hits you first; raucous and full of life. It’s strange that in a room full of people, you feel the most alone. Still you look across the room, a smile on your face. Your cheeks ache, but they won’t drop, you won’t let them. You catch his eye and walk over. His hand still burns on your arm.