Page 1 of Fruitbat

1

Si

10:32 pm

Music penetrates my ears and takes my body. I need it to carry this day away on smooth undulating waves. Thudding bass resounds in my chest, and lyrics fill my head as a gentle pulsing aura envelops me. I give in to the music, shutting out this crowded room, bursting at its seams with my so-called friends, and their friends.

The songstress pleads for her lover not to prove her right.But they always do, don’t they?

My knees bow and sway, twisting my hips from side to side. My head rolls and my arms flail over my head, like a marionette dangling from strings, tied to the ceiling.

The air inside my bubble vibrates as I close my eyes and surrender to the melody, bumping shoulders with the eclectic horde of costumed characters, swallowing me at the center of my living room.

My housemates insisted we throw this “Slasher Bash,” celebrating Halloween, by inviting anyonerelevantin our contact lists. They love any opportunity to boost their social standing. I’m not sure why my apartment became the primary venue, considering this party was never my idea, but I didn’t protest when I had the chance.

I do enjoy people a lot of the time. There’s a euphoria in being surrounded by them, even when they’re not genuine connections. Everyone carries wisdom and enrichment, giving and taking, whether they’re aware or not. Community makes the world a better place.Right?

It’s also exhausting.

Not onefriendat this party has remembered that Halloween is also my birthday.Your 30th is supposed to be a big one—It certainly doesn’t feel like it.

Mallory’s birthday is just two days after mine as it has been every year since we first met. Obviously, you’d think my bestfriendwould remember my birthday, with our dates being so close together. She’s dropped hints about her gift-list for weeks. I got her a slouchy cream cashmere sweater from her favorite boutique up the street, because she practically assigned it to me. I don’t like to disappoint, even though I’m always the one disappointed. Maybe that’s my trauma response?

I’m used to sharing my day with the beloved holiday. It goes down the same way, every year. I wait for the “happy birthdays” that never come but no one ever forgets “Happy Halloween.”

Nanny Grace used to remind everyone, including my parents, when I was a kid. She raised me and my four older siblings, and dedicated more of her life to us, than her own children, while our mother and father jetted around the globe. She was the one person I could count to remember my birthday, until she passed when I was thirteen. I’ve been forgotten ever since. I don’t understand how people forget so easily I don’t forget dates, they stick in my head like flies to a spider’s web.

“Si!”

Damien’s voice is light years away.

I carry on, rocking and rolling to the music.

“Hey—Josiah!” he shouts in my ear and his hands clamp my shoulders, reeling me from my trance.

“Yeah?” I shout back over the noise of the party, edged with frustration, as my bubble pops.

“Did you get tequila?” Damien’s black pupils are dilated and rimmed with blood-red irises.Those costume contacts are so creepy.

His floppy black hair is slicked back with some greasy gel and his face is powdered white with a drip of crimson corn syrup, trailing the edge of his mouth, dry and cracked to his chin.

“Yes, it’s in my room. I’ll get it.” I flag my index finger, adding, “One sec.”

My fangy housemate folds back into the herd.

Damien, Mallory, and I have known each other since we were little, attending all the same fancy private schools and pushed to socialize in our parents' pretentious circles. I'm not so sure they’d bother with me, if my father wasn’t who he is.

I weave through the crowd and up the hall, stopping by the bathroom, because my bladder is ready to burst.

A trio of ladies that I vaguely recognize, stumble out, laughing and poking at each other. Barbie in neon roller skating gear, a platinum-haired black-cat in a negligee, and Patrick Star, swiping white residue from her nostril on the back of her pointy foam sleeve.

I press against the wall so they can pass, and quickly lock myself into the toilet with the cloud of skunky smoke, swirling around my head as I relieve the ache in my belly.

The mirror is a nasty bitch tonight, reflecting frazzled curls, sun-bleached from the past summer, and my tinted-gray face is smeared with dark shadow around my eyes. I’ve been bingingThe Walking Deadepisodes all week. Dressing up as a zombie was the obvious choice for my costume. The simplest solution, after I left the decision until the last minute, and needed to think of something quick. Procrastination is my best skill.

I got crafty, chewing up a t-shirt with dull kitchen scissors, to make my jagged crop top. Leaving my belly exposed, because I’m gay, it’s Halloween, and slutty costumes giving skin are standard issue.

A hollow-eyed zombie mimics me In the mirror, sucking air through my teeth, and blotting my hands on a towel, before traipsing to my bedroom, slipping through the door, and latching it shut behind me.

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