september 15th

i am suffocating in here. my arms wrapped tight against my middle, i am trying to keep myself in. i am trying to keep from running. i only look like the anxious basket-case in the corner.

i admit that i am.

p.c stands to the right of me, sipping a cheap beer every few moments. i glance up at him now and then--he meets my stare and we both snap our heads to the forefront. it's as if he's saying, i know you, but i don't want to know you. he can't pretend that i don't exist for long, though. eventually he looks at me for an uninterrupted second, and says awkwardly, "hi."

"hello," i respond, quietly, as if my words are going to eat me alive. he turns away, and a hot blush crashes across my expression. i gnaw my lip, almost breaking the thin, chapped skin. i never know how to react to people--i can never tell if they want me to greet them. especially here, in this subterranean hollow, surrounded by people that have seen me at my absolute worst--i can't tell if they care that i exist. i don't know if they hate me, if they like me, or if they are indifferent.

around us, the music thickens the air. with the heat and the must, it is impenetrable. bodies flail, trying hard to break through the beat, but they follow it instead, and resolve to break each other.

every part of me is stopped up--my muscles are frozen, my eyes have tightened into a dry gaze, my stomach claws at itself in apprehension. around me, everyone is drunk and drinking. i try harder to make myself invisible, but i can only curl up so much. the pit grows, and a girl with thick chocolate hair bumps into me. with the palms of my hands, i push her gently, taking care that she doesn't tip too far forward. she turns to me, her big eyes rimmed with black, bursting with an apology. i don't know what she's sorry for. she can't help the waves of the crowd. for these few hours, we are ruled by it--especially her and i, small girls in the corner, prey to imbalance and overcome by the mass.

with her is i., a boy who lived in my dormitories last semester. he looks everywhere but at me. i can tell from his expression that he's trying not to: his eyes skip awkwardly from the brown-haired girl, to the band, to the teal mattress behind me. he is too tall for this basement. his carefully arranged black hair, straightened to an unnatural stillness, grazes the string of lights hanging from the ceiling pipes. the pit swells again, and he laughs awkwardly to the girl, "you have to be like this tall to mosh here." his hand gesture is exactly his height, but it doesn't explain why he isn't dancing.

when the band stops playing, everyone files outside, through the white staircase splattered with blue mold. in the gravel parking lot, two floodlights brighten the scene. groups of kids start to separate. everyone talks, laughs; the conversations blend and roar. there must be more than fifty people here. everyone's skin is covered in sweat, and bleached white with the light. pairs of eyes, hazy and wavering, glisten in packs of twos and threes. every so often a pair wanders in my direction and remains. it's as if someone has come from behind me with a silver chain pulled tight against my neck--i gasp, involuntarily, and look down at my dirty gray converse. my cheeks flame, and i bite the corner of my phone.

another pair of feet step in front of me. i follow the body upwards, past the snug jeans and the blue button down shirt, into a brilliant smile. jarrett's eyes sparkled free of judgment. "hey!"

"hey," i breathe, startled. his face is a relief, genuinely happy to see me, someone he didn't even know. "did you want to donate..." he starts off, but i cut into his question.

"yeah, of course!" i sneak a ten out of my pocket and stuff it into the glass jar he cradles in his hands, then move quickly into the lot.

"wait, your change!" jarrett stops me. his timid hands drop a five into mine, and i smile, puzzled. the money means nothing to me, but it would be too awkward to interrupt him. "thanks a lot!" he says, his enthusiasm barely contained in the polite reply.

suddenly, a large figure in a soaked white shirt lumbers down the stairs. his stringy bronze hair sticks to his forehead, and murky green eyes peer through the people. he makes his way through the crowd, stopping to talk in certain circles. he walks closer and closer, and my breathing accelerates. in my head, images flash through seconds--his grass-colored eyes, lazy with alcohol, pore into me; he is too close, and i can smell the sweat on his shirt, can feel it on the side of my cheek, can taste it on my tongue; his beard grazes my nose, and i am too close, way too close, and only getting closer. i am stunned into the present by the shock of the memory, and slip quietly away, further into the crowd.

he follows, unintentionally, and stops at more groups. i stand by a beaten gray car and stare at the gravel, feeling my legs locked into place. p. walks closer and stands in front of me, his left shoulder directly in my line sight. he shifts his weight and faces me--my heart stops in fear, and in the absent space of a heartbeat, it restarts. i gather what little composure i have left and flex my stiff fingers into a wave. he avoids my greeting and walks back into the house.

soon the crowd follows him. i lose myself in the numbers, letting my feet walk blindly forward. dead dog is on next, someone announces, but i don't think anyone cares. their conversations gather in the air and climb down into the basement with them.

i find myself in the same corner, against the same mattress, but surrounded by different people. from across the room, m., a king of a man, glances in my direction. our eyes meet, and his gaze hardens slightly. his distaste tinges his countenance, and the amber light falls in a shadow beneath his brow. i shudder and twist my head to the back of the redhead in front of me.

a familiar voice bites through my memory. "he called you a bitch," j. admitted.

"..but, why? he doesn't even know me."

"he said you were all over phil, that night at the parlor."

a thick girl in a striped blue shirt pushes past me--the memory disappears, but the guilt doesn't. i remember m.'s stare, the way he lowered his chin an inch, as if preparing to attack. he could read the sin in my eyes, but he didn't need to. i was drenched in it. my air was that of a man who should have gone to the gallows, but instead walked among the vulnerable and innocent public.

i look behind me in a force of habit, towards the door. j.'s pallid skin and deep-set brown eyes jump out at me, and i am crushed with another swell of guilt. he nods, and i meekly smile, but it doesn't touch my eyes.

i am holding myself tighter and tighter, and soon my breath stops. the heat closes in on me, squeezing my head and quickening my heart. i turn to the stairs and navigate swiftly through the people. by the time i reach the door, i am almost running, and i throw it open to meet unfriendly green eyes.

i choke on my breath. there is no air in me, and my face blushes deeper. he could have shot me and i wouldn't have been so shocked.

"hello," p. drawls, the condescension in his voice slight and unmistakable.

"hello," i reply, too shaken to say anything but a frightened mirror of his words, and hurry past him, fully running now, my eyes hot and brimming.