The night was off to a really bad start. I was confused. I was anxious. I was upset. I was passionate. I was starving for a hint of caring, compassion, understanding or dare I even say it: love. By the time I was thoroughly depressed, one of the boys came home. We had decided to ditch out on the party originally planned and just go get trashed and sleep. That's all I felt like I wanted. To get trashed and sleep; to forget. But naturally, things didn't go as planned.

By the time we were ready to go, one of the other boys was on his way back and insisting that we go to the party. Debate ensued. Bickering about the distance followed. Eventually we left, but not before it had hit me like a pile of bricks on the chest. The knowledge.

Once we arrived, it felt like we had entered another world. The garden was lush. The two houses were natural and full of craftsmanship. People were milling about everywhere, and everyone had a drink of some sort or a bottle in hand. I stopped, picked up my bottle of wine, opened it and gave up on the idea of a glass or cup of any sort. We wandered through the garden and the houses; herb waifed through the air and permeated every room we walked through. Loud and deep drum beats were coming from the performance room as we worked our way towards it. People were dancing, swaying and drifting with the beats. I just leaned against the door, clinging to my bottle and trying to ignore the heavy weight I felt.

Thank goodness another friend was there, and about to leave. Consuming the contents of my bottle and clinging to it as if it were all that stood between myself and death, even though it was almost empty, was slowly eating at me. And I realized; life is cyclical. We cannot escape that. I leaned over and spoke into the ear of my friend, saying that I needed to ride home with him. I so desperately needed sleep.

As we left, I corked the small amount of wine left in my bottle, deep red and painfully lovely, and left it right where I had opened it.