Fiction: Pit
I come off the dance floor and I’m dripping with sweat, screaming at everybody and nobody and tasting blood on my lips. Pain buzzes in my ribs and in my cheekbones and my legs move unsteadily towards the fire exit. People shrink away into the corners of the club as I move past them, eyes fixed on my expression as I take one last look back at the mosh pit and kick the fire door open.
Ignore the alarm and keep walking, past the couple kissing outside and the few people still queuing at the entrance. Leaving early tonight. Once you reach the climax, you don’t stick around afterwards. You don’t give things a chance to go downhill. Keep on moving.
I reach the taxi rank and climb into the first car in the queue. The driver looks me up and down, tries to decide if I’m at risk of vomiting in his vehicle. Decides it’s not a problem when I hand him the twenty. More than enough to get me where I’m going.
I take the small compact mirror out of my back pocket. The glass inside is cracked, but I can still see enough of my reflection to know that there’s going to be a bruise under my eye tomorrow. I used to try and avoid being hit in the face to begin with, but I didn’t like holding back like that. Now I don’t worry about it. I jump in to the worst pits at the worst dives and don’t offer up any defence against the worst of what the drunkest, meanest thugs in the crowd have to offer.
Make up can cover it up and shades hide all sins in the summer. Besides, I don’t have to face civilisation again until Monday.
The broken glass fragments fall out of their frame and I pick up the longest one and hold it up to my face. One time, I would have taken such exquisite pleasure in finding such a perfectly sharp, cleanly cut piece of glass. I look at the scars on my arms and think about how they got there. Sometimes I think I can feel them tingling - talking to me, telling me that they need air. Begging to be reopened.
But now I’m not tempted. I’ve got something better. The adrenaline will last longer this way and the bruises will be there on my ribs throughout the week. Besides, the classroom gets hot in July. It’s hard enough running around after a bunch of sugar-crazed five year olds, without having to wear a sweater or cardigan to cover up my arms.
The taxi stops outside the next club. I’ve looked this one up online. More arrests than any other in the city. The feedback from the speakers drowns out the parting words of my taxi driver and I feel my ribs buzz again. I pay my door tax, knock back a shot of vodka at the bar and head straight back to the pit.
© Vicky Hall, 2007
Ignore the alarm and keep walking, past the couple kissing outside and the few people still queuing at the entrance. Leaving early tonight. Once you reach the climax, you don’t stick around afterwards. You don’t give things a chance to go downhill. Keep on moving.
I reach the taxi rank and climb into the first car in the queue. The driver looks me up and down, tries to decide if I’m at risk of vomiting in his vehicle. Decides it’s not a problem when I hand him the twenty. More than enough to get me where I’m going.
I take the small compact mirror out of my back pocket. The glass inside is cracked, but I can still see enough of my reflection to know that there’s going to be a bruise under my eye tomorrow. I used to try and avoid being hit in the face to begin with, but I didn’t like holding back like that. Now I don’t worry about it. I jump in to the worst pits at the worst dives and don’t offer up any defence against the worst of what the drunkest, meanest thugs in the crowd have to offer.
Make up can cover it up and shades hide all sins in the summer. Besides, I don’t have to face civilisation again until Monday.
The broken glass fragments fall out of their frame and I pick up the longest one and hold it up to my face. One time, I would have taken such exquisite pleasure in finding such a perfectly sharp, cleanly cut piece of glass. I look at the scars on my arms and think about how they got there. Sometimes I think I can feel them tingling - talking to me, telling me that they need air. Begging to be reopened.
But now I’m not tempted. I’ve got something better. The adrenaline will last longer this way and the bruises will be there on my ribs throughout the week. Besides, the classroom gets hot in July. It’s hard enough running around after a bunch of sugar-crazed five year olds, without having to wear a sweater or cardigan to cover up my arms.
The taxi stops outside the next club. I’ve looked this one up online. More arrests than any other in the city. The feedback from the speakers drowns out the parting words of my taxi driver and I feel my ribs buzz again. I pay my door tax, knock back a shot of vodka at the bar and head straight back to the pit.
© Vicky Hall, 2007