I could feel the noise of the night club reverberating through the floor as I sat in my solitude. It felt like somebody was trying to claw their way out of my skull as I shook two aspirin from an ampule and swallowed them dry. I stared out through the glass wall of my father's office - soundproof, of course - looking out from the gallery onto the dance floor, where strobe lights shot back and forth, and how writhing, sweaty bodies slid together to the music's pulse.
Most of the time, I was down there with them, but not tonight. I didn't know what was up with me, I felt like I was half out of myself, with no appetite to watch as yet another blonde wandered over to me (I don't know what it is with the blondes) and tried to coerce me into buying them drinks. Whether they know I own the place - by default at least - I don't know, but then again, getting drunk and going home with me isn't the worst thing that could happen to them. Not compared to the lechers that I see in this place every Friday night.
With only the rhythm of another dubstep bass hammering through my ankles, I wander aimlessly around the room, glancing at the awards on the high shelf that Dad's convinced I'll smash if I come in here after one too many. Granted, I'm halfway through the bottle of Disaronno sat on his desk, but it doesn't even glaze my eyes.
Sometimes this angel thing really bombs.
Just as I'm about to take another slurp, the glass door bursts open, letting through one of Skrillex's particularly ear-splitting screeches, and I see Liam slouched in the doorjamb, a bright blue WKD sticking out of his skinny jeans pocket.
"Hey, Alex. Come back downstairs, everybody's asking for you!" He's unnecessarily loud, his eardrums most likely blown and too high on stuff that I will deny having any prior knowledge of on the premises.
"In a minute," I say, hoping that it'll be enough. Liam was the type of guy that thought he was deep, when he was actually easily readable. For instance, I knew that he was probably being ignored downstairs right now, and me being the owner's son would let him soak in my attention. As always.
"Whatever, dude," he scoffs. "I swear, you're such a buzz-kill lately." Feigning a childish strop, he slams the door shut again, leaving me in silence. Lately. He only noticed because I wasn't pretending any more. The truth is, none of this interests me like it once had. The clubbing, the ladies, this lifestyle, I liked to tell myself that it was all I needed, but knowing what I am, knowing that I will soon have these obligations (or so Mom says), it makes all of this suddenly...meaningless.
I slip my phone from my back pocket to find a blank screen, no returned messages or picked-up calls. I don't care what she says, if she really cared, she would answer me. Dad just lets her be, he loves her - or so I hope - but he knows what he is to her circle of people; mortal.
And what I am? Not a bloody clue.