Before I have the chance to pretend to object, she skips from the room, presumably heading to her room to change into something appropriate for a night of clubbing. I turn to my own closet, scouring through it for something to wear. I locate a shimmery black number and hold it up to my body, appraising it in the mirror.

In my reflection, I see the slightest trace of real happiness, which I don’t recall ever witnessing before now. It softens my features, making me look less harsh and intimidating, and more like a teenage girl with regular teenage girl problems. I throw off my jeans and sweater and slip into the dress, finding a pair of heels to match, and a necklace. Audrey enters my room soon after, and her squeal when she catches sight of my outfit is enough to reassure me.

We head out to Audrey’s car, and I find myself thinking about how ironic it is that an amnesiac wants to spend the night forgetting.

Two hours later, Audrey is drunk out of her mind, and while I’m definitely not far behind in terms of sobriety, I’ve taken on the role of her babysitter.

As it turns out, she becomes prone to trouble while intoxicated, and if I’m not pulling her off a guy who is clearly taking advantage of her current state, I’m swatting a drink out of her hands to prevent her from getting any worse. The idea of going to a nightclub definitely sounded good in theory, but now that I’m here, I just want to crawl home and fall into bed. There are too many bodies crammed into too small of a space, and the music is so loud I can’t even hear myself think. When Audrey declares that she needs to use the bathroom, I’m grateful to have a break.

It’s calmer in here, though the song outside pulsates through the walls and makes the floor rumble. I lean against the wall, enjoying the cool feeling of the tile on my warm skin. Closing my eyes, I imagine I’m somewhere else; a place where things are simple, easy. A place where I don’t even have to think.

But the sound of Audrey stumbling out of her stall ruins the suspension of disbelief, and I push off the wall. She straightens out her dress and sluggishly makes her way to the sink to wash her hands. The curls have fallen out of her hair, and her eye makeup has smudged, both things she seems to take note of as she assesses her appearance in the mirror.

“I’m so ugly,” she states, turning her face to examine it from all angles.

“What are you talking about?” I ask incredulously, coming to stand beside her.