Pain flooded my senses, and I knew I was awake again. My head throbbed with an alcohol-free (for once) hangover, and my throat ached for moisture. Sitting up abruptly, the world heaved as blood shifted around in my head. I groaned and relieved some of my discomfort by cracking my neck noisily.

Grudgingly, I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom. I ran the sink tap and splashed my face with the far too cold water. Grabbing the glass I left in the bathroom, I hurriedly filled it from the tap and gulped its contents greedily. I repeated the ritual until I began to feel human again–well, as human as I ever feel anyway.

When I returned to my bedroom, I glanced at my alarm clock and sighed. I missed dinner–again. Hopefully, I thought, I can get out of the house before I get another lecture about it. Throwing open my closet, I started grabbing clothes at random, not wanting to waste time picking something out. I moved on to my dresser and pulled out underwear and some tights torn in several places. I threw everything on as quickly and quietly as possible, and took a moment to apply dark purple lipstick and an excessive amount of eye makeup (mostly black). On my way out of my room I snatched my, affectionately and aptly named, “Artist's Bag”, and bounded downstairs.

I could hear my mother start towards me as I neared the door. “Eric! Where do you thin–“ she was rudely cut off as I roughly shut the door behind me.

I rushed down our street, and didn't slow down until I was at least a couple blocks away. For the first time, I took a look at what I had put on. I didn't think I did too poorly all things considered. I was wearing black short shorts with all kinds of pretend pockets and metal bits over top the tights, a purple t-shirt with an offensive bit of literature displayed across the chest, and my favourite article of clothing: my mesh “sweater”. Abruptly realizing that I didn't take the time to do anything with my hair, I decided to pull the artificially black mess into pigtails using a pair of Hello Kitty ties from my bag. The purple tips of my hair bobbed about as I walked.

Knowing that it would be in my best interests to not go home until well after my father was in bed, I idly wondered just what I was going to do all night. He was on nights this week, so he wouldn't be getting home until at least five or so. In the meantime, however, I knew exactly where to go.

The only place worth being at this hour was The Dungeon; one of the few clubs in the city at which an underage person could go see a live show. I had been going there for a couple years, so it was a place where I felt comfortable. As I made my way towards the club, I passed a Chinese restaurant I liked, though I could rarely afford. My stomach grumbled, sharing its sentiments about my unsurprising lack of money. Sighing, I continued onward, trying to ignore the hunger and the cold. Not a moment too soon, I saw the familiar lights of The Dungeon sign pointing to the entrance into the basement club.

“Hey Izzie!” A voice shouted in my direction.

I instantly recognized it as belonging to Dave. Turning in his direction, I smiled and waved. He motioned for me to come over to the bar–he worked here, and did just about everything needed doing in the place, but he always seemed to find time to socialize. I walked over to the bar, lifting my “Artist's Bag” off my shoulder as I did. Before I sat down, I put the bag at my feet, careful to make sure the strap was partially around my foot so someone couldn't “lift” it without my knowing.

“Hi Dave,” I said smiling (a thing rarely seen on my face by the way), “What's up?”

“Nothing much. It's a slow night,” he said, and I looked around. It was a slow night–you could see the floor. “How's my favourite anti-social sister-in-arms?”

My lips thinned out involuntarily. Swallowing, I looked away briefly and said, “I'm fine. Life goes on.” I tried to force a smile. The look he gave me told me I didn't do a very good job of it.

As if out of nowhere, Dave placed a full glass in front of me. It looked to be a drink I commonly had: gin and ginger-ale. The ice cubes floated in a clockwise direction, telling of a stirring previously inflicted upon the drink. “Enjoy it. It's the only one you're getting tonight,” he informed me with a stern look on his face. I knew all the other bartenders and they sometimes sold me drinks even though I was underage, but I know Dave would have spoken to them. I resigned myself to only having one drink tonight. Satisfied that I wasn't going to argue, he went off to serve other (legal) customers.

I lifted my glass to my mouth. This drink always reminded me of pine trees; don't know why. Briefly, I could almost see a crystal blue sky filling in the holes in a forest of pine trees, and smell fresh mountain air lightly floating around in a gentle spring breeze. I returned back to reality as quickly as I left, and took a sip from my glass.

“Elizabeth,” I heard from behind me in a flat, emotionless tone.

My sip quickly turned into a gulp, and every ounce of me tensed at hearing that voice. Placing my drink down, I slowly turned around, remaining on the barstool. “Kurt,” I said, matching his tone as closely as I could. Still, I think some of my tenseness seeped into my voice. And why shouldn't I be tense? I mean, just because your ex-boyfriend (with whom you enjoyed a rather violent break-up) sneaks up behind you out of the blue, is no reason to be on edge, right? Ha. Ha.

“I trust you are well,” Kurt said without a hint of it being a question, but he paused for a response nonetheless.

“I am well, and you?” I tried to force myself to be polite. It hurt, but then, civility can be just as sharp a dagger as any formation of foul words. At least, that's what Jane Austen taught me.

“Fine, fine,” he paused, “How are your... healing?”

I flinched, and I hated myself for it. Unfortunately, it didn't go unnoticed by him either. He didn't have to say what was healing for me to know exactly what he meant. See, a couple months ago, when he and I were still dating, I got drunk one night. Okay, I was drunk plenty of nights, but on one particular night things got out of hand. He wanted something from me, and was drunk enough himself that he wasn't taking no for an answer. Truthfully, I guess my refusals weren't very strong either. Anyway, before long he found something unfortunately attached to my person that he didn't quite agree with and took offense. I was in the hospital for a while, but I was lucky; it could have been a lot worse. Finally, I croaked out, my mouth suddenly very dry, “F-fine.”

Kurt looked like he was about to say something, but his eyes moved behind me and widened slightly. I looked over my shoulder and saw Dave. “What are you doing near her, Kurt?” he demanded. Kurt suddenly looked very uncomfortable, and I couldn't blame him. Dave was very protective of me, especially since the... y'know.

“I just came over to apologize.” I looked back at Kurt as he spoke, “I'm sorry for... for what I did, Elizabeth.” His wall of apathy wavered a little as he continued to speak, but I couldn't make out any particular emotion.

I had to look away. I closed my eyes and tried to force my emotions back down. If I let them loose, I didn't know how long it would be before I got them back under control. And I was really sick of crying. “Thank you,” I said quietly; almost too quiet for him to hear. I wasn't sure what to say, but that seemed appropriate. It did make me feel better to know he felt remorse over what happened.

Whether on his own or assisted by Dave's glare, Kurt decided it was a good time to leave, and I turned around to take another big gulp of my drink. I was trying desperately to not replay that night in my mind; to not see the look Kurt's face had worn; to not remember the “I told you so” response from my parents; and most importantly to not cry. If I started, there was no telling when I'd ever stop.

“Izzie,” Dave called me out of wherever it is I had gone. I looked up at him asking something with my eyes. I'm not sure what exactly it was that I was asking, but he seemed to know. He motioned for me to come around behind the bar and into the back. I looked back down at my drink, surprised to see that it was almost gone. Shrugging, I drained the last of my gin and ginger-ale, grabbed my bag, and headed around to the back. A few people looked curiously too see what was going on, wondering why a customer was going in the back. However, most of those at the bar knew of me so they didn't give it a second thought, or maybe they just didn't care.

As I made my way into the back, I noticed I was feeling pretty tipsy. I always was a cheap drunk, and the speed at which I finished the beverage didn't help, or helped immensely depending on one's intentions I guess!

Once in the employee lounge, I started to head towards the ratty old couch occupying the left wall. However, Dave grabbed my hand, and I turned to look at him. Before I could even blink, he pulled me into a hug. I could already feel myself losing more control over my emotions, so I tried to push him away, afraid that if he didn't let go I wouldn't be able to keep from crying.

He just held me closer, and a few tears started to leak out. Reading my mind, he said, “So let yourself cry.”

“But--” he squeezed me a little, trying to silence my argument. “I'm scared,” I took a shaky breath, “that if I do, I won't ever stop.”

“Well, I'm staying with you until it does stop.”

“But what,” I said between nearly silent sobs, “about the bar?”

He simply replied, “Karen will have to make do on her own.”

That did it. All semblance of control was gone. I cried uncontrollably, clutching David's shirt. He had to hold me up to keep me standing, and true to his word he stayed there with me for what seemed like an eternity. I had no idea how long I had been standing there with him when the tears finally began to recede. I was too exhausted to cry any more. He held me more tightly for a while. It hurt a little, but it felt good too, so I didn't say anything. Before long he put some space between us and kissed my forehead. I was so shocked I didn't even react to him suddenly picking me up.

Putting me down on the couch, Dave said softly, “Rest here for a while, okay? I'll come wake you before the band leaves so you can go have some fun.” He smiled at me, and then left the room quietly closing the door behind him. I lay there, wondering when the band had started playing, because I hadn't noticed until just then. I fell asleep quickly, feeling warmer and happier inside than I had felt in a very long time.