Clubbed to Death

Midnight came and went. The club’s emptiness grew with the pit of despair consuming my soul. I drank warm, overpriced lager, hoping to fill my lonely void with alcohol, hoping to knock the memory out of me, hoping the next thing I remembered would be waking up. Every note of music was like someone shitting in my ears, every song sickeningly bad. Every second was Hell.

I began to pick the skin out of my cuticles, to entertain myself. I was getting pissed off. I started to rub my knuckles, feeling my anger channel itself into them. My hatred for this place was overpowering. Rage was swimming through my mind, taking control; it was almost hypnotic, all consuming. I wanted to lash out. The tunes of the Kooks were hitting my head against the table, screaming at me to retaliate against everyone who was dancing to them.

I was digging my nails into my skin, trying to rip the loathing out through my temples so I could throw it at the DJ. I picked up my bottle of Grolsch, took a heavy swig from it, and slammed it on the metal table, an aggressive move, trying to release my loneliness and the all-encompassing frustration, almost claustrophobic, a thick, blood-red aura around me, suffocating me, as I tried to drown out the perpetual shittiness

My mind bubbled with the desire to violently resist against this shit. I formed a plan. I walked over to the bouncers at the door and smashed my bottle over a bald head, sending a cloud of glass into the air. Still standing, with blood dribbling down his face, the bouncer lunged at me. I responded by stabbing him in the leg with the remains of the bottle, shoving it in, driving the shards in, forcing the glass into his femoral artery, and ripping it out, streaking the walls with blood. He fell backwards, staining the carpet dark red, like spilt wine.

The other bouncers – 4 of them – were swarming me, angry bees. I shook a bit of gore from the serrated edge of the bottler and thrust it into the face of the nearest meathead. I saw it slicing into his eyes, tearing through his lips, mauling his face; I used his momentum to push it further, deep inches into his head, as his eyes burst, before he fall to his knees and wept blood.

Dashing away from the remaining bouncers and into the dancers, I let my hair down and threw my outer shirt away, aiding camouflage, allowing myself to avoid these hunters briefly while I finished the job.

A pouncing lion, I leapt over the sound desk. The DJ looked me up and down, noticing the blood on my pants. His face turned stony white. He stood up, backing away, shrinking, my cornered gazelle. I grinned, pacing towards him, before striking with an elbow to his chest. He fell to the floor, throwing his arms up to protect himself. I dragged him to his feet and smashed his head into the wall, screaming, “GET SOME FUCKING OPETH IN HERE.” His head was a crushed tomato. I threw it back to the floor in revulsion.

Glancing over the desk, I saw three bouncers were scanning the club for me, with one scouting the exit. I jumped back to the dancefloor, leaving the DJ spitting out blood, teeth, and his venomous words directed at me, and hopefully thinking about Opeth. I bolted for the door, the bouncers not noticing. I hopped over the two bodies- my two victims, one completely still, the other one blowing blood bubbles – and ducked under the remaining bouncer’s arm, running into the cold embrace of the empty night street.

I walked to the taxi rank listening to Opeth on my mp3 player.