By the 100’s

She takes a conical glass of brightly coloured liquid from the dresser. Staring at the throngs bubbling around her swamped with vibrancy: halls and ceilings seeming to leak black and gold tinsel and coloured lighting all pulsating like heartbeats to their own rhythms.

Her face screws up at the nasty, sickly bittersweetness of the drink but she quickly composes her features, eyes doing a good impression of leisurely scanning in case she was observed. Moving away fluidly as a troop of rabble-rousers descend upon the table, she seems to stalk across the floor managing to avoid several feet and arms which suddenly flail about her person.

Sliding up to a vaguely ignored position on the far wall, she crosses her ankles, covered from toe to knee in chained gold boots, and latches her free hand onto her elbow. Trying to project calm and ease, her tension seems to radiate out across the room, creating a vibrational barrier of safety.

‘Janelle! Janelle!!’ She flinches as her name is screeched across the party — although no-one seems to react. Or even notice. The carrier of this voice, filled with mirth and spirits, seems to ever so slightly rampage through the party-goers somehow managing to hold his drink whilst bumping into anyone within a two metre radius.’There you are! SO happy you came!’

‘Tymon. Glad to be here.’

‘HA!! That’s a LAUGH!’ He wraps his frilled, crimson sheathed arm around her, in one movement managing to detach her from the wall and plant a large kiss on her cheek. Thence for the remainder of the evening remained a very noticeable bright pink kiss-mark. Despite his roughness, she relaxes and her breathing deepens.

‘What. Is. This?’ Glancing momentarily at the concoction slowly warming in her hand, he stares at it amusingly.

‘Who. Could. Say.’

Hurling his head back with a laugh he returns a raised eyebrow, ‘Say, how about we mingle? I know how much you love socialising. We might even meet someone we know.’


Despite light resistance, she allows herself to be dragged across the packed room and down the menacingly decorated corridor. It opens into a feast of chaise longes draped with suitably attired party attendees.


‘‘Oh’ indeed, my dainty wallflower. Look — there’s our group.’ At his releasing another incomprehensible screech, the indicated group turns as one and replies in kind with points, smiles, raised glasses and a good deal more screeching.

They are all pointing at her.