She sits in the room of her best friend, next to an empty glass, an empty juice can, and a bright light pointing in the wrong direction. She looks in his direction and scrunches up her face, wondering if he had managed to kill what he was after.
Several nights prior to this was a different year. She spent it curled up on another friend's bed drinking weak alcohol that she could not stomach, while others downed bottle after bottle of whatever they could find. Feathers were torn out of aging fabric sacks, and she rolled in them. She held them above her head and dropped them like snow, and pretended she was alone.
Going outside left her coat covered in feathers, her head covered in rain, and her pants covered in mud. Still, she made the adventure. Hands extended out to her, and pulled her to the ground; a familiar body on top of her. Screaming and laughter followed, and then she was alone again.
The wind and the rain kept on well into the night, but she made good company for others as they made a trek home, so she stayed and braved the elements. She felt she had to anyway, this was not her usual territory. She is merely a guest.
Voices call out and bodies run, and her head cracks against the slick black pavement. Arms interlock like a tangle of vines on a rarely traveled jungle path. She is challenged. Bodies run off again only to return with tears and blood and hateful words.
She clings to him in the rain pleading and crying.
He pulls from her, and runs again.
She's not in the mood to keep up.
New vehicles full of intoxicated passengers speed past, missing him by only moments. Each time, she says something close to a prayer.
The next two days are spent cleaning up the feathers and the blood and the mud.
This is what the new year brings to her.