The Fear
by Libby Shkreli
The lights pulsated with hues of green and blue, constantly shifting along the ceiling of the packed room. A pounding base made the building feel like it was on the verge of collapse. There were arms around my waist, and someone giggling in my ear, but the deafening noise made it impossible to understand what they were saying.
I licked the sweat off my upper lip and marveled over the numbness in my mouth. I could feel my nose running slightly, but I was glad that my group decided to pick up a second bag.
Then a fear began to creep into my stomach, the kind of fear that accompanies benders with strangers, and slowly worked up to my esophagus. I unhinged the girl’s arms and ran towards the bathroom. Reaching the door was a feat, and as soon as I pulled my hair up, bile spurted from my mouth. When it stopped, I used thin toilet paper to wipe the seat of any residue and slowly stood up, flushing away the remnants.
I smiled at myself in the mirror. Hands that didn’t feel like my own poked at my cheeks and slowly dragged down the remainder of my face. I traced my lips and bit my fingertip. There was a primal urgency in my movements, as if I needed to capture this moment, this freedom, before it all washed away down the sink. Turning the faucet off, I left the bathroom in search of a cigarette.
“Can I bum one off you? A lighter too if you have it.” A guy from our group opened his pack and slid one out.
“Can you promise me that you’ll return my lighter?” I nodded, reaching towards his hand, but he raised it above his head. “I want to hear you say it.”
“I’ll return your lighter as soon as I come back inside.” I said with a grin. He scanned my body before stopping at my chest and lowering his hand.
“Do you want me to go outside with you? I hate the thought of you alone out there.” I couldn’t help a shudder from the residual fear. I didn’t want to be alone with him.
“I’ll be back in two seconds; I need a minute.” He didn’t argue, and placed the lighter in my hand, lingering slightly.
I left the sticky empty glass filled table and reached the entrance of the bar, warning the bouncer that I would be back, and stepped onto the concrete.
The air was refreshing and empty, which was the perfect atmosphere for a cigarette. I lit one end and inhaled deeply. Tracing my fingers through the groves of the brick building, I took a drag and focused on the sensations in my body. The vibrations started in my toes, working their way up to my thighs. My mouth was warm, and my nose was cold.
Then the fear returned, and the beat of my heart began to thump in my ears. I was sure that it would begin to beat so quickly that it would stop all together. I noticed a small entry between the building of the bar and its neighbor, quickly deciding that walking would be my best option to sober up. I turned down the empty alleyway. I focused on the sound my feet made when they hit the pavement, and stopped when I noticed grimy dumpsters that surprisingly had no scent.
There, in-between the trash, laid a man with dried vomit on his grey sweatshirt and green cargo pants. His head was tilted back with his mouth wide open and eyes staring into the sky. His arms rested on his legs with his hands clenched into fists. His chest was stagnant, especially compared to the quick rise and fall of mine.
I froze.
I knew he was dead; it was the surest of anything I had been in my life. Why wasn’t I screaming? Why wasn’t I trying to help him? Looking at his ring finger, I wondered if he had a wife or a husband. Did his mother feel her son pass? I felt like I was intruding.
I used my foot to kick him and faced no resistance. Concentrating on his undone laces, I tried to channel all the sympathy I had to decide what my next move would be. The truth was, I was angry that I stumbled upon him. Now I was met with the duty of reporting his body and getting help, and I was in no state to handle these responsibilities. Would I call the police, or would I just scream? What if he wasn’t actually dead and could come back?
I kicked his foot one more time but wasn’t shocked at the lack of a reaction. The fear was bubbling again, and I used all my strength to push it down.
The image of my lifeless body sitting between two dumpsters in an alley flashed, and I wondered what this man would do if he found me. I thought about who would miss me. Would he scream for help? Would he just walk away? Would he pull my shorts to my ankles and spread me open? Would he think about my mother?
The fear began to dissipate.
I turned towards the entrance of the alley, realizing it was just us two, and kicked his thigh with as much force as I could muster. He didn’t ask me to stop. I lifted my leg again and stepped on his stomach, placing all my weight on his abdomen while lifting my other leg and using the wall to support myself. I could feel my heel break skin. I began stomping on his stomach, and after some time, I grabbed a fist full of hair and wound my arm back before crushing his cheekbone.
I opened my eyes and saw the sleeping man in front of me. He was slouched between the dumpsters snoring loudly, unaware of the fact that I had been standing over him for the last five minutes fantasizing about his death. I unclenched my fists, silently backing away, and made my way to the bar.