This weird thing happens on Saturday night at the club.
Saturday means she’s at the regular club. She hates the music, but there are more people. They swell all around her as she dances in the middle of the room, by herself, and she feels their heat, their energy, their hands on her. Their eyes.
It’s not the usual way people watch her—there’s always someone watching her. But her eyes are closed and it feels like cold fingers on the back of her neck, something ethereal, something strange.
The music sucks and she mostly tunes it out, only hears the bassline, lets it guide the sway of her body. And in the dark, with her eyes closed, she can still sense the colors around her. They each have one, all of the people here, and she sees the way they go hazy as the energy draws into her. It tingles in the bottom of her head, flows down to her sternum, between her ribs, between her legs. It fills her, sates her.
She does her best to focus but feels the presence. It puts a chill into the stream, has her on edge.
It makes her move faster, weave between bodies, breathe harder like it might help. She absorbs energy faster but it doesn’t shake the weird feeling. Makes her feel a little drunk on it.
When she opens her eyes she can’t help looking around, trying to pinpoint where it’s coming from. She sees the drunk women near her, the clueless men. Puts names to faces in a sense, still able to taste bits of their souls. The eyes are still on her, and she turns a circle in the middle of the floor, squinting towards the dark corners of the room, but there are no hints.
Filled, and creeped out, the music is overbearing now. She hurries out, bumps through the warm bodies. They’re disgusting, now that she’s full. She shudders at the feel of damp skin, the smell of booze and heavy perfume. Just wants to get out.
She grabs her hoodie from the coat room, feels for the knife she left in the pocket. Draws the hood up and holds the hilt of the blade in her pocket the whole walk home.
The feeling doesn’t go away.
