You are sixteen. You are sixteen beneath those strobe lights and you know the only reason you are there is because Bev offered the bouncer a flirtatious smile and he took it like currency. It is not the fake ID burning a hole in your pocket; too sloppily put together by Richie or the fact that you all still carry the residue of childhood's grabby hands clutching at you.
You approach the bartender; a man in his late 40s who looks like your father and he gives you drinks without checking your ID. He calls you sweetheart and even gives you a free drink you did not ask for, tells you when he gets off for a break and you pretend to not know what he means. He persists, forces his way into your childhood and you play at being interested. Playing pretend is all you have left from your childhood.
You dance. You dance even though none of the others are - even though only Bev has dragged Ben away to dance so the other four's eyes flicker between the two locations. You end up trapped between two men, both whos faces seem hazy by the end of the night and you dance. You dance against them even when the taller of the two slides his hand inside your shirt and calls you a whore for dancing with anyone.
You don't care.
You dance until your feet scream at you, until the lights no longer spill yellows that remind you of Georgie's slicker - his death outfit, on the dancefloor and until the bartender shows more concern than your father ever has when he cuts you off from drinking.
[ he propositions you to meet him in the alley, though, so you suppose it may not be a concern. ]
You bring someone home - a man, a woman, it stops mattering, you bring home someone who can resurrect the dead boy you've become - and you say goodbye to your friends. Ben and Bev's happy and flushed faces make you irrationally angry - don't they remember what we went through? How can they be so happy?. You pretend not to notice the plain want in Richie's eyes on Eddie's back as you say goodbye, pretend not to want to crawl into Mike's or Stan's or both's laps when you see their hands intertwined under the table and beg them to love you.
You don't. You go home with the person who does not love you in the slightest and you beg them for more, harderfaster meaner. You beg them to derive pleasure from a body that has long since stopped allowing you to do the same.
You beg them to tear the pieces of you that make them feel something out of your body.
You beg them to tear you apart and leave you cracked, broken and bleeding in a ditch somewhere.
Just like Georgie.