My eyes snap toward the noise in the hall, toward the low light flowing into the room, my mouth falling open as three black hoodies shuffle out of it.

I stand there for several seconds, my body slowly passing back the reins to my mind and oh my god, what in the…

My palm finds my forehead, and I whip around, wringing my free hand out at my side.

Holy shit.

What the hell was that?

Better question!

What the hell is wrong with me?!

I spin, pacing the small space.

Shadows pass the open door, and my head snaps toward it.

Person after person passes in the hall, some headed left, others to the right. I shake my head.

I need to get out of this room.

I clear my throat, smoothing my hair just in case, and push it over my shoulder.

I walk out, and as I round the corner, I find the party hasn’t paused in search of one missing girl but is just as busy and full as when I last looked around it, if not more so.

Thank god.

The dance floor is still dark and full, the drink area just as buzzing and the couches the guys sat at, still partially occupied.

Everyone laughs and shoves while animatedly talking, and I take a deep breath, moving straight for the bar.

On my way, I pass a mirror and freeze.

With small, slow backward shuffles of my feet, I bring myself back into view, and my eyes shoot wide.

Holy. Shit.

I turn fully, facing the mirror head-on, and a disbelieving laugh bubbles its way up my throat, but I quickly swallow it.

The cold hands, the chill that met my skin...

Paint.

Paint that can only be seen with the help of a specific type of light.

A black-fucking-light.

I look from the large, hot pink handprint on my neck, wide and strong and flawless, pressed and held there without so much as a protest, to the fluorescent blue finger trails that run along my chest. I shift slightly, a low curse leaving me.

Perfect palm prints cover my ass, both broad and curled, a shape one can only manage with a nice, full grasp, they’re so perfectly placed.

My body heats all over again as I inspect their artwork.

Around me, people begin to slow their steps as the bright neon along my dress catches their eye.

You little fuckers.

This place may be dark as hell and they might have been blanketed in black, but it’s so easy to see this little fun of theirs for what it is—their attempt to shift me into a spoiled girl’s freak-out session. Little do they know, I don’t exactly have one of those. It’s one of the things that makes my mother crazy. I tend to brush things off—it’s a waste of energy and time and worst of all, shit like that steals your sleep.