SCENARIO: Zombie Free New Year's WHO: Eloise and Brennan WHAT: Ellie is out of her mind, and Brennan is her gentleman savior. WHERE: Streets of New York. RATING: Medium/High. Not sure...? STATUS: In progress.
Eloise hated people.
No. Yes.
Or maybe she just hated being near them when they were too loud, and someone had spilled beer on her dress, and when everything spinning to the left it somehow made her angry, irrationally frustrated, enough that she did not remember her coat, enough to throw her shot glass and dizzily pretend it was an accident, enough to strut out on wobbly heels and sing a confused amalgamation of Placebo songs all the way down the stairwell. It was sort of like watching herself from a vantage point somewhere on the ceiling: as if she knew everything and nothing all at once, which was the way drinking always made her feel. So confident about the nothing, too. She could hear herself saying the stupidest things, but they seemed so solid, so reasonable. Like a science. It was nice because sometimes she couldn't even be sure she was actually the one saying them. Surprise after surprise.
By the time Ellie made it down to the street, she wasn't completely sure where she'd been planning to go. Home seemed like the correct answer, but there was so much else to be done, and it was hard not to listen to the self-destructive voice telling her that it was New Year's -- why go home? Go somewhere else instead, without so many obnoxious friends to show concern. Nobody told Eloise Stamp what to do if she didn't want them to. Right?
Well, no. Ellie was a fairly reasonable person and she knew it: a being of logic, boring and predictable and honest. It was easier to pretend she wasn't, though, on nights like this.
Reason now dictated that it would be impossible to walk all the way home in these high heels. An odd anger welled up in her at the thought.
"I'm 5'2", it doesn't even matter if I wear heels," someone was wailing. Then Eloise realised that she wasn't walking anymore at all -- just sitting on the sidewalk in the shortest skirt she owned, wearing a borrowed top that had nothing to do with her own sense of aesthetics. Really sophisticated. Perfect.
She breathed out slowly, feeling nauseous. I'll just count red cars until I can do it. One... One... Two...