Chapter 1 #3
The thoughts always started off small. Easy enough to ignore.
But the more I thought about the party, the more my mind began to whir.
It wasn’t that I really cared about anyone at the party, nor their opinions about me; it was the way my mind seemed to grip me, take hold of me until I simply couldn’t think straight.
Every negative comment, every possible bad interaction barrelled into the forefront of my mind as I began to chip at my nail polish and pull at the skin on my fingers, trying to find some comfort in the repetitive action.
Who are you again?
You look like you got dressed in the dark.
Sorry, I don’t think you were invited.
You’re friends with Esme and Isaac? Huh, weird.
Did your grandfather pull that outfit off a dead body?
I shook my head, trying to shake off the thoughts.
As they got worse, they always got more far-fetched, too.
My grandfather had retired several years ago, and other than a few other people from our high school who had come to Aldercrest, no one knew me well enough to know that was his profession.
I took deep, steadying breaths, trying to slow my heart, which had taken on a life of its own, pummelling against my chest in a chaotic frenzy.
It's going to be fine. It’s going to be fun.
A sorority Halloween party most likely meant booze, free food in the shape of ghosts, spiders, and my two favourite people in the world.
I let out another shaky breath, hoping that all my anxious thoughts went with it as I resolved to go and make the most of it.
Which loosely translates to drinking myself silly and then not getting up until noon the next day.
Trying to find a suitable outfit by looking through the vintage clothing rails at Hugh’s was like trying to find a needle in a haystack.
But the needle didn’t exist, and the haystack was just a mound of hideously patterned sweaters, stained trousers, and nightgowns that were likely last worn by the person who had died in them.
I sighed as I rifled through rail after rail, the sound of the metal hanger against the bar both mocking and taunting.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, was jumping out as even remotely appropriate.
I’d come across a crushed red velvet slip that looked like it would be perfect for a makeshift sexy-devil costume or some kind of off-brand, knock-off Jessica Rabbit (given that I had absolutely no tits or red hair).
Holding the dress up to my body was as disappointing as it was sobering.
Whilst velvet felt nice on the skin, I had no intention of swimming in the dress about five sizes too big.
“For fuck’s sake. I mean, there has to be something in here, right?” I mumbled to myself before rifling through yet another rail of nightgowns. Ones that looked right at home in my grandmother’s wardrobe.
Shit. Maura.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and frantically typed in the passcode.
Wrong. I tried again. Wrong. Had I really forgotten my passcode in the last fifteen minutes?
Were the old-clothes-smell odours really getting to me?
No. It was just the universe’s way of keeping me on my toes.
Because the dim, yellow overhead lighting in the changing room and the ill-fitting clothes were somehow not punishment enough.
I glared at the screen, punching in my passcode again as I muttered curses that would have had my grandfather clutching at his chest.
Quincey: Gramps, shit. I’m sorry, it completely slipped my mind that I said I would call. I should be home in like an hour. How’s Grams doing?
Gramps: Hello Pet, that’s alright. She’s doing okay today.
Pet had been my nickname for as long as I could remember.
Somewhere between planted seeds and hours spent watching my grandmother tend to her vegetable beds and flower hedges, the nickname had emerged.
Maura treasured her garden above all else.
It was something that she poured every bit of love into, until our backyard bloomed in a myriad of vibrant colours.
I’d asked her once if her garden was the thing she loved most in the world, other than my grandfather.
She had just turned to me, the same soft smile that always shone out when she looked at me, and said that I was the most precious petal in her garden and that she couldn’t wait to watch as I grew and bloomed.
Over time, the nickname had just stuck, well, the trimmed-down version had.
My grandfather was the fondest of it, though.
He was soft. Too soft for the likes of Maura and me.
Quincey: Has she had much chance to get out in the garden? The weather’s god awful.
Gramps: No. She’s worried her perineums are going to die. No. Not perineums, perennials. Jesus. Backspace. Backspace. What the fuck is wrong with you, you damned thing? Stop typing out what I am saying. Ah christ.
Dictation. Happens to the best of us. Although in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have tried to teach my grandfather such an advanced setting and left him to the basics.
I know there was a running joke that old people couldn’t use technology, and current mishap aside, I wasn’t sure why.
Technology was hard. It was constantly shaping and evolving and moving on to the point where I even struggled to keep up with it.
But I insisted my grandfather got a more modern one when I went to university.
Even though I still lived in Darling, FaceTiming made it slightly easier than driving back to my childhood home every other day to check in.
Gramps: hate phone
Quincey: I’ll call in an hour okay. I’m just
For fuck’s sake. I am obviously not done typing.
See? It wasn’t just the old people who were struggling.
With all the money and scientists and the revolving door of coders with their new age technology, you’d think someone would have been able to ensure my phone was capable of working out when I had and hadn’t finished typing out a message.
On the technological scale of ‘hate phone’ to the moon landing, my sentiment definitely aligned more with my grandfather.
I yanked another Halloween contender off the rack.
This one was something of a neon nightmare.
Suspended in time by all the bits of string that went this way and that way to the point where trying to figure it out was giving me a fucking migraine.
Whatever it was, I wasn’t sure how it had ended up at Hugh’s Oddity Vault.
Gramps: Tell Hugh I say hello will you. I saw his wife at the grocery store earlier this week.
Gramps: By the lemons.
Quincey: How does everyone know where I am?
Quincey: Be honest with me here Gramps, am I really that predictable? Am I really that fucking boring?
Gramps: You’re a wonderful young lady who likes what she likes.
That’s a yes, then.
The promise of calling my grandparents was withering away before my very eyes.
Half an hour later and three more dresses tried on, I was at my wits’ end.
One would have been absolutely perfect had it not been so fucking long.
At five foot two, it pooled at my feet, making me look like I was emerging from some portal in hell.
I really did love it, but I had no time to hem the dress, and quite frankly, I don’t fucking know how to anyway.
The second was beautiful. Really, really beautiful.
I had high hopes for being something I could blag my way through at tonight’s party.
‘Oh, I’m the Crow from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Crow’ or ‘very slutty Wednesday Adams.’ Which was to say the long black dress was utterly stunning and unbelievably see-through.
Damn you, mesh, for coming back in fashion.
It's not that I was opposed to wearing something more risqué.
All things considered, I had an athletic build, crafted from hours and hours of running to escape my own thoughts.
But flying under the radar at this party was my focus, so I decided to go with something a little more understated and a little less bend me over.
Although the third dress didn’t scream Halloween, it really was stunning.
It was a light champagne colour that almost seemed to glitter in the overhead lighting as it moved through my hand.
The satin was soft and slipped over itself like water.
Where I had thought it would be a little more understated, because it wasn’t fucking see-through, I’d failed to consider the deep V cut in the front.
I made a mental note to text Esme to send Isaac over with nipple covers, so I didn’t accidentally jump scare someone with my nipple.
And I didn’t want any of the fabric to catch on my piercing.
The moment I considered it, a wave of gory, terrifying thoughts, all barbell-related, pooled into my head.
But the dress was inexpensive, so if on the very rare, but not impossible, chance that something snagged on my piercing and ripped my nipple clean off, I wouldn’t be out of pocket too much.
Just down one nipple.
I snapped a picture to send to Esme to triple-check her approval before spending a hard-earned fifteen dollars on it.
Ezzy: WHAT THE FUCK?
Quincey: No good?
Ezzy: It’s so much more than good. You look so fucking hot. Very fuckable.
Quincey: Don’t say fuckable
Ezzy: Are you going to fuck a frat boy tonight, Quincey? ;)
Quincey: I plan to eat all the free food and drink all the cheap booze
Ezzy: Quincey’s going to fuck a frat boy. Quincey’s going to fuck a frat boy.
Ezzy: As your self-appointed mother and father, Isaac and I strongly approve.
Ezzy: Of you. Getting laid.
Quincey: You know what? *Cough* *Cough*
Quincey: Shit. Seems like I am coming down with something and will no longer be in attendance.
Ezzy: I promise, some of them are so hot.
Quincey: Doubt I’ll notice behind my mountain of finger food
Ezzy: That wasn’t a nooooo