Cherry Cola by Sara Travis

We walk through the front door, and the smell of pot hits us like a brick wall. I wrinkle my nose in disgust, but Darren just grins like a loon and starts bobbing his head in time to the beat of the music. It’s so loud the walls are shaking slightly, little flakes of the plaster coming loose. I didn’t even want to come - I hate Gary and he hates me. But I suppose, once in a while, it’s necessary to make an effort and attend one of his parties. I figure 15 minutes is all I need, put on a show of union for Darren, and then I can meet the girls for a cocktail or five.

We dodge the plumes of smoke in the living room and head for the kitchen. Darren hands me a warm can of Stella (I hate Stella) and wanders off to the stereo, so I seek out a quiet corner of the lounge to pretend to sip my drink.

Unfortunately, Gary sidles up next to me and sticks his face into mine.

“D’you want some?” he asks, his rank breath tickling the hair on my face.

“No, thank you.” I reply, side-stepping out of his reach. This doesn’t deter him, he comes closer; now I’m wedged between him and the wall – no escape.

“You don’t even know what it is!”

“If you’re offering it, I don’t want it.”

He laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and I risk a glance at his face. His eyes are reddish and wild, his pupils tiny pinpricks.

“You’re stoned.” I say, for lack of anything better.

“It’s this new stuff, Stace,” he whispers, bringing his bearded face even closer, and pulling from his trouser pocket a blister pack full of ruby little gems, “I’m calling it Cherry Cola. It’s fucking rad.”

“No, thank you,” I repeat with a little more force, “now if you’ll excuse me …” and I raise my can to my lips to take a swig. But of course, it’s warm Stella, so I swill it round my mouth for a second before gulping it down. I hate Stella.

Gary’s still leering, so I sigh and shove my shoulder into the wall to pry myself away from him. I hear a mad cackle behind me.

“Enjoy …” he wheezes, and skulks into the haze of pot smoke.

I frown for a second. The taste of the beer still lingers on my tongue, but something seems off. A strange aftertaste at the back of my mouth, almost acidic, but with a hint of … cherry. I stare down at the can, a knot of panic forming in the pit of my stomach. The can slips from my hand, hitting the stained carpet with a thud, the contents glugging out in spurts.

“You fucking bastard,” I say, but the words echo, as if spoken in a tunnel. I blink and the party has slowed down, the smoke seems thicker, brighter, it’s almost glowing, and the music is still pounding, I can feel the beat in my chest, I blink again, but it takes an age for my eyes close, and if they make it I’m not sure they’ll open again.

“You fucking bastard.” I say once more, but the words never reach my lips.