Soon after I turned 16, I dated my first boyfriend, Benjamin Evens. He was sweet, polite, and didn't like me for what I offered (that had to be a lie, as being attracted to someone based on physical attractiveness is inescapable). Ben was powerfully built, with a chin sharp enough to shave the hairs from my armpits. Some, as I've painstakingly heard, would say a true fit-a-holic. I'd say he was a man of true finesse– who spent the better half of his weekends pumping iron, getting swooned by impeccably fit women and guys begging for help designing their plans. We first bumped into one another one cold October morning in gym class. 

        We were in the middle of doing our 'stretches' as the Physical Education teacher claimed, even if it was more purgatory. But, even though I enjoyed P.E., it was too demanding for me. My friends constantly made remarks about what I wore, going as far as to call me a baby walrus. I defended myself right down to the final assault, when, in the women's locker room, they ransacked all my clothes. They forced me to walk out in little more than a stinky school representative shirt that hung to my feet graciously. After that indecent incident, I rebuked their friendship (especially the one shouting off names like a drill sergeant) and escaped into the reality that I'd only have three friends. 

        Mr. Clementine (the fool organizing our downfall) had us running laps around the basketball court, 15 to be exact, and while I huffed and puffed my way into the back, sweat making my grey t-shirt the same hue as my hair, Ben chips into my peripheral vision. His floppy blonde bleached curls bobbed intimately. My initial thoughts of him were: 1) he was the definition of a hunk, and 2) he towered over me. He could pick me up by my arms and treat me like the baby elephant I am. 

        Anyway, I'm getting distracted and should return to the whimsical kingdom of this colorful story. 

        "You're Violet, right?" Ben asked me as we rounded the corner. "I'm Ben; nice to meet you." 

        Thinking back on that day, I had been intimidated to the point where I collapsed. I fell flat on my face, skidded across the waxed floor, and stayed there–like I was already dead. Something ripped straight from the uterus of a comedic skit. Moments after that, Ben came over and knelt near me. He tapped my head. Ben's modest approach made my flabbergasted heart melt into a pile of rubbish. "Are you... okay?" 

        I nodded respectfully and took his hand. Once I was back on my feet, I began sucking on an oily, slick strand of hair, sure to indulge in its translucent taste. "Thank you," I responded, red-faced, fidgeting with my sausage-like thumbs. Using my most confident voice, I said, "And yes, I am Violet." 

        From then on, I couldn't stop thinking about Ben. He invaded my thoughts every evening, late into the night, with his broad muscles, glistening forehead, and picture-perfect body. I think even when I ate, he popped up in memory. (An example was when I was shoving strawberry muffins in my mouth, cheeks sprinkled with dusty pink, and my brain decided to concoct a scenario where I was sitting on his lap, and he was hand-feeding me. Yes, I realize I'm not okay for thinking that.)

        Days passed, and we hadn't spoken since the interaction during class. The next time we talked to one another was two weeks later, during the first snow of the year. I was decked out in my favorite parka (to be honest, my only parka) and had a thermos full of hot chocolate. That snowing afternoon, I worked overtime to stay hidden from the public spotlight. Snow cascaded down from the windows, and I was happy because it was Friday. 

        The second the final bell sounded, and I'd sloppily stuffed my books into my Attack on Titan backpack from Wish (the image was a blurry jpeg from Google), Ben shuffled up to me. His boots slushed against the squeaky floors, and I couldn't help but smile at the sight of him. 

        "Violet, may I ask you a question?" He said, voice creaking like creaky gears. 

        16-year-old me had no reason to decline his kind request, so I spurred him on. "I grant you permission, now, speak." 

        "Are you free this weekend?" Ben asked as he blew on his hands. 

        "Well..." I retorted, attempting to sound like someone with even a hint of social life, but I wasn't the most logically intelligent woman, and the art of persuasive flirting hadn't settled in my soul yet. So, I ended up sounding like a nervous wreck. "Yeah, I think I am," I said, then remembered I'm not a social woman, "No, actually, I'm free for a date." My eyes grew large, like ovals, and I tried to dismiss the subject. "I mean! I'm free for whatever you plan on asking me to do." It all sounded like a bad nightmare, and I kid you not; when I went home, I locked myself in my room for hours– replaying that conversation. 

        Anyway, Ben laughed hard, shaking his head with excitement. "It is a date. I'm asking you, Violet, on a date."

        To me, it was like being asked to marry them. They were words I hadn't heard ever. I always doubted if I was good enough to be dated and to be the subject of someone else's affectionate desires. It plagued my heart on whether or not I deserved love. But catching someone's attention changed that faster than I could say "wow" to. 

        The date happened two days later, on a guilt-free, cloudy Sunday afternoon. Ben swung by my house to pick me up. After exchanging shy formalities (I stuttered to the point where I'm sure he thought I had a speech impediment), we caught a movie. Of course, I don't remember much from that evening– it's nothing more than a stop-motion video. It's one of those black-and-white movies with static from the mid-90s. Hazy, dull, colorless. 

        The movie ended around 5 pm, and I was hungry–watching my weight like a champion–so we agreed to get food. While Ben leaned over my body to reach his debit card, his pinky grazed my thigh. It was a quick trace across the surface, nothing more, nothing less. Not in an overly aggressive or sexual manner– he just reached over to grab something from the tiny compartment above me (at least, I want to believe it was an accident). Clearly, as day, I remember looking over at him and seeing his eyes plastered on the dark road ahead. Those eyes felt warm and tingly. I was like a piece of worthless bum that had finally found its family after many tiresome years of searching. I knew what my heart wanted, even if it proved futile.  

        Ten minutes and a Big Mac meal later, we were in the back seat. Our breathing was loud, rigid, and sequentially following the same pattern. Long inhales and shaky exhales. Ben was groping my body like an expert, fondling my otherwise full breasts, shirt off, rippling ribcage showing, perched atop my stomach. I, being a horny teen, didn't deny myself anything. I moaned and pleaded with him to continue and practically tore the lacy bra from my back. It lasted too short, and when he started to shuffle off, I grabbed the top of his coat and brought him down on me. We touched, explored, and withdrew, marking ourselves with the heavy burden of post-couple boundaries. 

        It took us another hour and a half until I was in my bedroom. Later that evening (around midnight, the memories are a bit repressed), Ben texted, and my phone lit up. He thanked me for entertaining him. To which I replied somewhere along the lines of, 'You made me feel so hot! Come over sometime and do it again?' We built off one another, sexting for hours and hours, and we continued even into the early morning. Right before I sent the goodnight text with a raunchy emoji tied behind it, he beat me to the punch. 'Do you wanna be my gf?' Ben initially texted, until he added, 'I'd be down to move forward!.'

        That day set in motion the most antagonizing period of my life. Lie after lie, guilty nude after guilty nude; it was pitiful what I let myself get into. That's not even the funny part. Sure, we continued to go out, making out in the back of his Toyota and screwing around on Sunday evenings. But the pleasure had left as the love I catered toward him. It died the moment he asked to have sex with me. It arose unexpectantly and with devilish intent. He wanted to take something from me that I held dear (I didn't, but how else was I going to explain my shameful virgin status?). 

        I said no, and he kept pushing. Our relationship fizzled out after, barely lasting a measly month. Goodbye Benjamin, hello heartache. 

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        Music, movement, laughter, sweat, dim red LEDs: I was far outside my comfort zone. Stuffed into a pink bodycon dress, I wove in and out of drenched souls. I'm an antisocial girl, bear in mind, and none of this is to my liking. Don't even get me started on how hot it is in this malleable maze of partygoers– where one suggestion could shake things up to new heights (or lows). 

        Azure's mask, easily identifiable as a Volto, was a deep crimson with tiny purple beads surrounding her eyes and bits of her forehead. The rest, lavish and grey, shrouded her in mystery. She's a mysterious figure holding the hand of her clueless and clumsy friend. 

        Opposite to Azure's sheer dominant presence (heads flipped around wherever she stepped), I wore a Columbina. It was akin to that of a laughable jester. Sure, it appeared easy on the eyes–with a magenta coating and slippery squiggles–but it didn't hide my spherical face. Simply put, I was an out-of-place cartoon. 

        Azure squeezes by a couple of parasites jamming horns together in an erotic display of, well, I'm not quite sure. Faces ablaze with gold and bronze masks, concealing them like an undercover agent. I hope that isn't how they mated. Seeing that reminds me of how much I miss planet Earth. The countless number of troubled youths motivated by shameless propaganda, the troves of scoundrels that lead America (and the pathetic demons that so willingly follow without as much as a demand). And the billions that die each year because they spend more time clogging their arteries with Burger King than visiting a local gym. 

        It pivots back to a calmer life when home cooking popularized American cuisine. 

        "Isn't this the best?!" Azure yells in my ear as the DJ revs the music up a notch.

        I shake my head, praying my anxiety meters don't spill over. And that the weary, hated red warning lights never flash their disgusting colors. 

        Azure shifts us away from the dance floor as she ventures off to find us refreshments.  Nudging my stiff shoulder, she leads me into a separate hallway. I saw the giant signs pointing to 'Men' and 'Women,' though in no way did they clearly say that. A picture of a slender giant with sloping, dismissively large horns graced the cover of the men. It was generously tame. In contrast, an obscenely drawn, provocative-arched, oddly positioned female struck a pose for the women. 

        I almost laughed. Talk about monstrously disproportionate, I thought, slumping down the bleak black wall. "Azure, I hate this." The building had an upper deck, and drinks flew off like a game. Hands hung over the edge, and murmuring lingered timidly. I had to perform near-flawless acrobatics to avoid simmering in parasitic germs or acidic poison. 

        "Ugh, what a grumpy muppet," she grumbles, taking a sip from the cup in her clammy fingers. She mistimes, and I watch in awe as it splashes down the crevice of her sultry dress. "They'll be here soon, so try to be patient." She muses, using her sleeve to clean up. "And if you want, and this is purely optional," her tone implies otherwise like she's urging me to oblige. "You can shut up, drink what's there, and have fun."

        I sneer, "I've been patient! I was willing to go along with this faulty plan of yours." I swirl mine, watching a pleasant whirlwind form in the center, dragging the liquids to the bottom. "You needed to be here." I scoot a few centimeters away, dragging my butt (and the expensive dress) along the breeding ground of disease. "Besides, I don't like parties..." 

        "Want and need are two different things, my girl," Azure lowers her voice as a lone parasite with a mask resembling a jester trips over itself to no avail, eventually staggering into the bathroom. "Your life, err, enjoying what you have left is important, okay?" She folds her hands, " No use going about like a stagnant fly, drawn to the appealing beauty of the swatter but too shy to explore," she brings up her knees. "You're that bug, Violet." 

        A bug? Me? To the naked ear, that sounded like a sad insult (I'm easily offended; don't go pointing fingers). But, instead of feeling sorrow or anger, I remain neutral. I'm a calm waterlily that casually cascades downstream– until it's removed from the calm and torn apart by a salty fifth grader on a field trip that he struggled so long not to participate in. Alright, I'm a teensy bit pissed. "I know I'm a bug," I huff, sticking out my tongue, "Why must you bring that up?" 

        Azure leans forward, "Huh? I didn't mean it in a derogatory way," she bites her lower lip. "You're shy, and I was referring to that." 

        From the right corner of my visual field, the parasite from earlier swings the door open. The near-silence Azure and I have upheld for the past few minutes is numbing–though refreshing somehow. She brushes my shoulder, staring at the overhead light like a mosquito drawn to blood. Timidly, like a broken child, I cling to her arm tightly. Not for a second does my grip waver. 

        I'm still holding my breath and clinging obsessively to Azure when I feel a finger poke my arm. "Hello–" I stop, trembling at the sight of another spirally-horned parasite. Azure, the stone-cold mismatch, gently pushes me off, whispering for me to shake off these anti-social restraints–to grow and evolve. 

        "Not trying to bother you," he says, with a hint of boyish charm. "But, I noticed you sitting over here with your friend," he points to Azure, who waves tentatively back. "And I couldn't help but wonder, 'does she have social anxiety too?'"

        I muster the courage to laugh, whittling my chit-chat battery to near-record lows. Without even meaning to, I'm losing myself in the parasite's Columbina., watching their pupils dance about like Christmas lights behind the mask. "I... do," I finally mumble, placing a hand on my neck. "You... have... social... anxiety?" 

        "Yep," he bops his head. "But I'm sure you have it much worse," the boy laughs, making my heart dissolve into steaming water. Foosh, just like that, it's jelly, gelatin, anything that wiggles and jiggles when provoked (my heart isn't water but weak and insecure). 

         Oh God, my stomach is growling and churning with a ton of bliss. Like I'm slowly, but begrudgingly, falling in love. I thought I belonged to Zander. I think, once again turning my attention to his face. "It's not," I say shrewdly. "It's... Not" 

        "I didn't come over here to argue, miss," the parasite counters, glaring at the crowd bouncing and screaming. "Have you ever danced to a waltz?" 

        My head cocks 70 degrees down. "A waltz?" I say, excited (and equally trying to arouse a chance to decline). "This is a joke, right?" I scoff, scratching at my right arm, "I'm the epitome of a stuffed sausage." As someone who struggled so greatly with their identity, I was doing an outstanding job of making my hefty insecurity (excuse the poorly timed joke) known to the world. 

        "Name's Angus," he sighs, "And if I were troubled by whatever it is you're talking about, I wouldn't have bothered mustering up the courage." 

        Azure kicks me into Angus, who, in an impromptu manner, catches me with swift speed. We make our way toward the dance floor. I rub on someone's thigh as the music blares a notch higher into deafening insanity. What kind of foul waltz is this? March of the Damned Gun Maidens? 

        Angus leads me to a clearing where we wait, parallel to the door, for the music to abruptly change. 

        Like an unplanned kiss, six stunningly dressed figures burst through the entrance. They're all in masquerade attire fitting for the occasion. Blue hair shapes the bulge beneath one of their masks. 

        Oh. Call me stupid. It's Apollo. 

        Minerva, or whoever I'm assuming is Minerva, wraps herself around him demandingly. As if to say, "I'm here bitches." It's also evident that her dress speaks for itself, beige and hugging every inch of her critic-slicing model-envious body. 

        This situation is hilarious. At least one good thing slips from the cavity of this jaw-dropping encounter. I get to continue my journey to exterminate this baby Eater. Yay, I can't wait!