Afterparty

You were so excited about the party. You insisted I should change into something more dressy, as you sat perched on my bed, making a mix of at least twenty. We decked out the house in lights both neon and fairy, sipped on as many bottles as either of us could carry, indulging in all kinds of foolery, as we danced nonsensically amongst a similar army. I introduced myself as your sister that night instead of sherry and you had laughed both proudly and hysterically. We were in our element, boozey and carefree – indulging our inner kids as you slipped your arm around me under a sky so starry and began the countdown into the year that would make all these memories history.


But then you died and the lights were blasted back on at the party. Suddenly the blue and purple glow on the dancefloor just looked eerie under the scorching heat of your honesty. You never wanted to be here anyway. The sky stopped looking as colorful and pretty, the music descended into incessant weeping, and all the beauty I thought I had seen revealed itself to be mere trickery. The party was never what I thought it was going to be. For me it was meant to be an event we threw together, the first of many; it should have been my favourtie memory. For you it was a convenient way to say goodbye before you checked out for eternity. Returning to a party the next day drains the night off of its mystery and all you are left to see are floors too sticky, and the random clothes or the odd shoe forgotten by somebody, as you breathe in an air of regret and smoke and whiskey, and wonder how it had all looked so pretty.


Your death has blasted the lights on, on every memory. It’s like returning the next day to the party and seeing the grime that lies beneath. As if I spent all my time with you living blindly, flinging about my limbs and indulging only in malarkey but now the lights have been blasted back on and I’m left standing on an empty dancefloor, forced to feast on your honesty and flush away all my memories.