Post by MORGAN JANE FARREN on Apr 30, 2013 19:20:31 GMT -5
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Cowardice was a sad thing, a thing frowned upon and much mocked. Yet, it was also a thing so greatly misunderstood. He who had no fears had neither courage nor cowardice. But he who had the greatest fears, the greatest trials, and faced them the victor was the brave hero. Yet, this scenario failed to take into consideration those who had fears, but fears too great to be faced. What about when your fears haunted every step? You were expected to face what you could not rid yourself of. It stalked you in the night, then in the changing hours; and finally in every minute of your waking – and slumbering – life. It was one of the many failures of modern society, the lack of provisions for those too paralyzed to breath within the casing of their fears. Instead they were labeled the cowards, those doomed to look forever with desire upon the courageous. Yet it is never taken into consideration that perhaps it is they who are the courageous for simply rising from bed each morning to face a fresh day of terror. The world, was a sick place. One such girl – one such coward – leaned against the bar. Her arms were folded across her chest, her dark ebony auburn hair fell in waves around her shoulders. Her ankles were crossed and her eyes intent as she surveyed the crowd with the smallest of smiles on her lips. All around her, people holding red cups of beer or other illicit alcohol passed her by. Some, mostly the males, passed with a wink and a ‘charming’ smile. Others, mostly the jealous girls, flipped their hair and looked at her with something akin to disdain. Morgan wasn’t particularly phased by this. When it came to bitches, she liked to think that the crown, or at least a tiara, sat squarely on her own head.
There were more important things to Morgan than a few insecure girls dressed as sluts. Her gaze was focused on the groups, the pairs, the people. She hadn’t come to drink, or even to party, not yet at least. She liked to think of herself as a work in progress. She was slowly creeping, or seeping, in to the world Brett had introduced her to. She smiled at the thought of him. He was attractive – sure. But she wasn’t really attracted to him physically, at least that wasn’t what drove her desire for him. She was enticed by the way he lived, the way he held himself, the air of danger that seemed to engulf him. She wanted to be a part of it, to feel alive the way she felt when she was near him – electric. So had begun this, or these more appropriately. Her midnight trysts to bars, nightclubs and parties she wasn’t invited to were becoming more and more frequent. She never really even did much at these trysts. She sunk into the background, and watched. She watched drunk girls dance on tables for clapping guys. She watched guys who thought they were cooler than they were get in fights with each other, or lift heavy objects above their heads. She even watched the occasional horny couple going at it. Those she found the most amusing, mostly because she could only imagine how they would feel in the morning. Morgan glanced over her shoulder at the bar, and chewed her bottom lip slightly. She had never actually gotten a drink. She was partially afraid of the consequences, and partially nervous to travel into the unknown. For all that Morgan was a bitch – and she was – in the more sultry ways of the world, Morgan was an innocent. But for that one time and the whole baby thing.
Fingers drummed on the table as she debated her choices. She was distracted though when a boy – somewhere in the two year range of her own age – passed in front of her. He seemed oblivious to her, completely concentrated on the man behind the bar. He moved with caution, almost a combination of trepidation and regret. He was careful, which made him stand out. Morgan watched with interest. The man behind the bar handed the boy a glass of wine. Morgan snorted. What teenager ordered a glass of wine? She couldn’t help but label him a prude. She watched the bartender and cleared her throat. Summoning the strength of the adrenaline in her veins, she strode confidently up to the bar. She pushed her hair back from her face, though the smile had faded. Morgan wasn’t really the smiling type. She looked at the man, her eyes cold. “Vodka, and lemon juice.” It was an odd combination, but she was just naming whatever came to mind. To make matters worse, she had entirely forgotten about any sort of ID.
