Anne. It’s already eleven and we’re only just leaving. This sort of worries me but I convince myself to make an effort to be a little less pedantic for tonight. After all, my social face is doing really well so far. I want to match the smile I’m wearing.
On the street crowds of already drunk people are collected outside clubs, smoking and laughing too loudly because everyone else is. I’ll be honest; they aren’t the most convincing advertisement for the corners they haunt. We are now outside a place with a few less smokers outside of it, and so we go in. The ceiling is quite low; the whole place is a sort of shimmering red from the light, which matches the extremity of the heat rising off the people. This place seems a little slower-moving, the music isn’t that dense- in fact, it’s actually quite good. The people seem to move in slow-motion, looks of elsewhere-ness on all of their faces…I think I know that look quite well.
-El, how many drug dealers are in this place?
She giggles, sort of nervously. I should probably care more about this, but I’m getting quite nostalgic for the zombie-like peace that emanates from the people around me.
-I’m going to the bathroom; I’ll be back in a bit.
The bathroom? Already? I don’t believe for a second that Eloise wasn’t already planning a trip here tonight. The realisation of my integral role in her enjoyment of the evening suddenly dawns on me, leaving me feeling vaguely ill and horribly bored. It’s a bit strong to say I can’t trust her- this is clearly what people in our situation are supposed to be doing with their lives. On the other hand, though, the lack of a future in the eyes of the tripped-out dancers presents me with an awfully grim premonition for my companion.
I’m very, very, tempted to leave. I decide instead to scour the place for some non-dilated pupils. I’m not here to depress myself further, and I’m determined to get some enjoyment out of this whole traumatic experience. As if to add to this already effervescent atmosphere, some lines from a Smiths song casually float into my head.
“There’s a club if you’d like to go, you could meet someone who really loves you…” that would be nice. I actually do think, for the first time in a long time, that meeting someone to feel affection towards would actually not be a torturous experience. I almost really do want to talk to someone right now…but then the next line comes into my head.
“So you go and you stand on your own…” Ah. I look around me. My friend has abandoned me in favour of some crooked wide-boy in a toilet somewhere. I can picture her on her knees right now. She’d be scraping coke off the floor while sucking him off. I’d go to the loo to throw up, but I don’t want confirmation of this mental image.
“And you leave on your own…” It’s looking likely right now. I hate how short a time it takes for me to see the worst, but usually the truth, in any situation.
“And you go home, and you cry and you want to die.” I’m not a religious person, if you hadn’t guessed, but I do honestly believe that Morrissey is a prophet.
I won’t be crying though. I never do. If I was crying I wouldn’t be wanting to die. I wouldn’t die either, actually. For some reason my masochistic tendency dictates that I stick out this life as long as physically possible. Giving in would be a luxury that I simply cannot allow myself. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of anyone who refuses to consider suicide for selfish reasons. It’s definitely true though, that there are no altruistic motives. Maybe that makes me a beautiful example of human purity, sticking to my primeval nature, following my instinct. I’ll keep on thinking that, it brings a smile to my face.
A smile, I consider, looking around, that is a total stranger in this red-lit world.
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