Wasted

• James Threlfall, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2014

The after party. “Grab us another, mate!” They’re on a paddock near some run down shed. Doesn’t matter which run down shed. Doesn’t matter what paddock. The music’s the same. The illegal drinking is still the same. The drugged up kids, are still the same. Orange dirt. Thin grass. Hard ground. “Try this one!” A cold one flies through the air, cut up by laser beams and strobes. Short dresses and hairspray melt onto the torn jeans of older boys. For an hour or so, all the b*******, whining, backstabbing, and crying forgets to matter. Makeup and red cups. Acid tabs shake through hands like water. Synthetic pills sink down unknowing throats, ready to bite, to strike, to end the night. Lucky lads line up with their dates for a heated moment behind the metal shed of shame, keen for a quicky.

Bad planning and anticipation combine, throwing up the puke that is this entire party. The formal school social before was actually half decent. Not that it matters. Not that anyone can remember it now. Half can’t remember their own name. Who cares? They’re havin’ a ripper.
“Uni next year?”
“F*** no, mate.” Gulp.
“Oh I LOVE you, babe! I f****** LOVE you.” Dusty orange breathes up like fire. Dance-floor burning up. Footprints in the sand. “Down another! It’s hell nice.” The beats still pump.

Goes louder. Two lads smashing on the beer splattered ground. Rolling. Mud everywhere. Kids surround them. Emu Export for all. Should be sponsoring the damn thing. One bloke’s p*****, the other’s on god knows what. Boys might even be buddies, who knows. Probably got with his missus. Bad move. Crowd are in support, it’s funny to them. “Hit him, ay!” Chuckles. Compare strikes and blows. They’re all lovin’ it. Zombie like maneuvers. Dodge. Trip. Stumble. There’s no adult force here, no security. Fight stops. They’re dancing together! Bodies all geometric and s***. Best mates again. “You’re just a lad, bro.”

D******* on the shed. Probably trying to get a glimpse of the guy and girl behind it, gunning it. No other way down. The dude jumps down into the crowd. Screeches and shouts, really. “You’re a w*****, mate.” Girls worked up. That bruise will be right in the morning. So will the girl he landed on. “Someone help, she’s hurt.” Guy limps away to his mates, legend. Another beer will do it. She aint’ moving anywhere, though. She’s down. “Hope she’s alright.”
“What should we do?” Whimpering.

The ambo rocks up. Cops too. Authority. Could hardly hear their presence. Could feel it, though. Lasers fight with the flashing of blue and red. “Sick strobes, man!” Power-cut. “Aw!” P***** teens. P*****off. P*** test em’. Cops come over. Clean and sober. “THAT’S IT. MOVE ON.” Space made for the hurt chick. Room to move. Can’t, though. Friends stay behind. Tears, waterworks. “He just jumped on her hey, I don’t know” Too pissed. Can’t remember a thing. All dressed up with no where to go. Poor girl.

It’ll be all over Facebook tomorrow. Don’t have roads but they have a connection. 3G cellular phones. Far from their homes. Headaches for the morning. Dusty showers and dirty hair. Transport? Nah. Footprints reach the horizon. Road back to town – how ever far. Poor hospital chick. Wonder if they’ll care once they’re sober? Wonder if they’ll care when they’re jobless and they're older?