real.life
She wanted to go so badly.
I wasn’t so sure. Even though we’d known each other since forever, or that I loved her like a sister, I kept saying “Its in a bad neighborhood”, “I hate going out in cold weather”, “I don’t have anything to wear,” but she insisted. Said we were only young once; that clubs didn’t have grand openings every day. I knew that last part probably wasn’t true, but I gave in anyway.
We dressed up to the nines, her sporting a red glitter tank top that pushed her size A’s so far up & in, she had cleavage. Actual cleavage!, she would squeal. I ended up in a striped pink and black dress, more cute than sexy. She was disappointed, asked me “Is that really what you’re wearing?” but I didn’t care. Looking back, I should have insisted she cover up as much as I had been, that she piled on the sweaters so no one could see her figure.
Our drive took too long, both of us yelling at each other’s lack of direction while we traded off studying the directions from Google and the tiny map on the back of the club flyer. Driving down city streets, I kept watching the people walking by, ignoring the homeless with their hands stretched out for change, threadbare gloves barely protecting them from the cold. A man is standing on the corner, and when we drive by, he looks right at me, right at my soul. It makes me shiver.
“Cold?” she asks, and I don’t want to scare her so I just nod.
“Hey,” she hits me in the arm, “hey, you think that’s it up there?” We both look further down the road, and I see bright neon lights all over this small hole-in-the-wall, a dilapidated shithole covered with tinsel. “What’s it called again?” I ask, squinting at the lights. “Is it…does that say ‘Fuck Me Pumps’?”
She claps her hands in excitement, this big smile across her face. “Yes! That’s it, oh let’s park! I want to get in there now!” I’m annoyed at her statement; like I can just stop my car anywhere, you dumb bitch. I sigh at the idea of finding a parking spot, of paying $20 to stay in a lot for three hours, and almost want to turn around and go home, right then and there.
But I don’t. We drive further and further, until it feels like it was just a mirage, seeing the club that close. We finally park in some shady lot, where this Indian guy stands in the back, collecting money and waving his gun around for all to see. The walk seems like forever; halfway there she starts complaining about her choice of footwear, and it makes me want to scream. I say, “You should have thought of that before you decided to wear fuckin stiletto heels,” but she doesn’t listen to me. The whole way, “Oh my feet hurt soooo much, they’re so cold. Baby, would you trade with me?” By the time we see the line, I’m actually happy to wait, as perhaps it will distract her from her foot pain.
It does, and before we know it, we’re in. I will say this; one unusual boost of self esteem is when a sweaty overweight black man guarding the door says “Damn girl” and lets you right in. “Still got it!” she says as we walk in, grabbing her chest and shaking, huge smile on her face.
The club is dark, but filled with more neon lights so the mood is oddly dark and electrifying at the same time. Some girl walks by, but not before stopping and screeching, “FUCK ME PUMPS!” while pointing at my crazy friend’s feet. She slaps a sticker on her chest, says, “Stay for our contest and you might win! Your shoes are awesome.” The girl walks off, and my friend looks at me, sticks her tongue out. “I guess I should’ve worn these shoes, hmm?”
I roll my eyes; we just got here and I’ve already decided I can’t stand to be with her anymore. “I’m going to the bar,” I say, and just leave. Once I get there, I look behind me to see if she followed me, but she hasn’t. I immediately wish I hadn’t walked away; what if something happens to her? The worry quickly passes as the bartender slides me a shot of blue liquid and says, “First one’s on me, gorgeous.” I throw it down like the ace drinker I am, and he raises an eyebrow. “Was it good for you?” he asks, exuding sex and youth like every teenage heartthrob does in waves. “Sure, how about another?” I smile flirtatiously, hoping for another drink on the house.
Hours later, I’m drunk, grabbing the bartender by his collar, getting into excited conversations with strangers about childhood memories, or commercials we’ve all seen. I check the time and I’m blown away; where the fuck is she? I’m surprised she never once checked in with me, so I get up and start to look around. By now, the club is packed, and moving around is difficult. I walk around, yelling her name, but no one even looks at me. I walk over to the DJ and start yelling to the guy. He ignores me, but in my drunken stupor I just assume he can’t hear me, so I start to climb onto the stage. Security guards grab me in seconds, and their hands are all over me. One of them slides his hand slowly between my legs, and I freak out and kick as hard as I can. They raise me up in the air, like we’re crowd surfing, except I’m doing it right out of the club. They set me down on the sidewalk; say, “Come back another night when you're not so sloshed.”
The whole thing is a whirlwind, and I start to think about her again. Where the fuck is she? And then I look up, and she’s right in front of me.
“Hey baby,” she says it slow and sweet, like she’s full of honey. She does seem like she’s on something, but I can’t tell in my own elevated state. “Where have you been?” I huff out, hands on my hips. She shrugs, drawls, “Been around.” I squint at her, giving her a real strange look. Her eyes are big black circles of nothingness.
“Okay, well…I just got kicked out,” I say, “And I’m too drunk to drive yet, so let’s go somewhere else. Is there anywhere else you want to go?” The first time she’s not in slow motion, she shakes her head back and forth like she’s trying to shake it off. “Noooo. Some guy was about to take me to the V.I.P. room.”
As if he heard her, some dark, lanky guy, swimming in baggy clothes and too many diamond pendants, creeps up behind her and lays his arm across her shoulder. “Yeahhh baby, you ready to go?” he slurs, and I shift my weight onto my other foot. It’s all I can do to keep myself from tearing this fucker apart. I grab her other arm and stand my ground. “I can’t go in, and you’re not going in alone.” I hiss at her, but she’s miles away. I wish I knew what she was on so I could yell at her for it. The guy hears me, peers over at where I am. “You can come too,” he says, and I know he’s doing his best to seem cool, but he still comes off as creepy.
“I’d rather just go home,” I trail off, but then realize that I can’t drive. I shouldn’t drive. “Are you sure I can get in? I just got kicked out.” The guy smiles at me, “Seriously? Well, don’t worry – V.I.P.’s can do whatever the fuck they want.” I smile back; maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
I wake up to loud bangs, someone kicking the shit out of a metal chair. My whole body is in pain, and everything around me is a watercolor painting. There are no edges, no discernible differences between anything, and so it all runs together. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and I can’t speak. I try to think back to what happened, but I can’t think. It burns to even start thinking. All I can picture is the guy’s face, his sure smile; I want to cry, but my face is so hot I imagine the tears pouring out of my eyes and sizzling once it reaches my skin. And then I see it.
Her red glitter tank top, ripped with cigarette burns, crumpled on the floor. My mind goes into convulsions as I wonder if the cigarette burns happened before or after it was off of her. Before or after they attacked her, before or after they possibly raped her. My mind races at all the possible scenarios that could’ve happened to her while I laid here unconscious. I am so angry that I am shaking, chewing at the insides of my mouth.
My eyesight is better, less blurred, and I notice a girl with long black hair in the corner of the room, her head between her legs. She moves only slightly to breathe, and I lie there and watch. Was she a part of this scene? Was she a victim too? My mouth is still stuffed with cotton, but I try my best to whisper loudly, “Hello?” My voice is too tiny for the room, the club noises downstairs, the air vent booming, and yet she still hears me.
She brings up her head slightly, peers over at me and seems to jump when she realizes I’m awake. She opens her eyes wide, wider, until I think maybe she’s just doing this to gross me out. “Can you help me?” I say in my little voice, but she ignores me. She continues to stare, mouth open. It feels jarring to have someone stare at you like that and not know why. I want to yell “What?!” as loud as I can and push her down the stairs. Finally she stops staring, heaves a big sigh, and slowly stands up. Her legs shake like a baby deer as she gets to her feet, and she opens the large glass door beside her.
“¡Ella es despierta, ella es fuckin despierta!”
I know enough Spanish to know she’s told on me, and I spit in her direction. I know it won’t reach her, and my mouth is so dry that no actual spit comes out, but at least she knows how I feel. “Tough girl eh?” is the voice from the door, and I turn to see that same man. “Where is she?” I whisper, my voice just a rasp on the edge of the wind. He shakes his head. “You don’t deserve to know that. You have to work for it.” People he’s with reach down and pick me up; one of them slides his hand between my legs. I shake and kick and scream (silently), but they are strong. They carry me down two flights of stairs, down below the club beat and people having fun. We get locked into a room, gray and empty like I feel.
Tape is put over my mouth, not that it matters anyway. I feel like an animal, a child, anyone that’s ever wanted to scream at the top of their lungs but not have the ability to. “You have gorgeous legs,” the man purrs at me, stroking my calves. He leans down and starts to lick my ankles. I try to kick him off, and he looks straight at me with fire in his eyes, then turns back to my leg. He begins biting, hard, into my ankle, his teeth sinking down to bone. Now I know why they put the tape on – even with no voice, I could scream after that.
Someone hands him something wooden and small; it’s a pencil, sharpened, and he jams it into the side of my thigh. My eyes water at the stab, and when he pulls the pencil back out, the lead stays in my leg. “Ha ha ha,” he laughs, like a donkey, like a fucking ass. He does the same thing again, stabbing me with a sharpened pencil so that the lead sticks in my skin. I think about lead poisoning and freak out; how slow do you die from lead poisoning? I’m in so much pain and so hopeless, I’m now worried if I’m going to die fast or slow. I pray for fast.
“What are you thinking?” he asks me, hovering over my face. I realize that my eyes had been closed, so I open them. As soon as I do, he spits some kind of alcohol into my eyes. I squeeze them tight, fast as I can, but they still burn, leaving circles where the light was. “Ha ha ha,” he laughs again. Someone walks in, and he immediately walks to them, where they whisper violently. I can see him getting angrier and angrier, rubbing his hand over his hair, twitching from side to side.
“¡Reparto con él!” he yells, before the man who walked in runs off. He snickers as he walks back to me.
“Your friend, she is brave even when she is naked,” he laughs, “even when she is getting burned.” The word sparks his interest, like he wasn’t the one who said it. “I should burn you.” The man is spiteful and disgusting, as he gets so close to me I can smell his stench, the blood on his skin, the alcohol in his pores. “What do you want me to do to you?” he asks, and then laughs again. In my head, I’m sobbing. In real life I would be telling this guy off, kicking him in the balls while I spat in his face. No, no – I realize I’m thinking about the movies; this is real life. Real life is me getting snatched by some torture hungry fuck because I was too fucked up and stupid to realize it. Real life is me dying on this table today.
“I can tell you are thinking by the activity in your eyes,” the man says, and I notice right away the knife in his hands. “If I take off the tape, will you tell me what you desire?” He peels it off slow so that my skin holds on until it is stretched so far it has to rip off. He lays the knife to my neck, gliding the cool blade from side to side. “What do you want?” his voice is smooth but dangerous, like broken glass.
I swallow; my throat is still scratchy, my tongue still sticky as peanut butter. “I – I – I can’t talk,” I whisper, “Please just something to drink will help.” No one says or does anything until the man motions to one side of the room. A woman walks up to me, pours a pitcher right into my mouth. The water is like a dream, so cool and refreshing. I close my eyes; pretend I’m at home drinking it. She stops and I open my eyes. I can feel how strong my voice is now. I look at her, watch her walk back to her part of the wall.
“How could you?” I ask her with all my might, “How could you do anything but try to bring this evil asshole down?! What the fuck is WRONG WITH YOU?!” The man’s hand is down on my mouth in a second, and the taste is awful. “No screaming or I will stop being nice,” he hisses. I bite his hand, sharp as a paper cut. The taste of blood makes me smile, makes me want to get up and dance. He lifts his hand, cursing in Spanish, looking at the damage I’ve done, and I immediately start in.
“OH BABY BABY IF YOU CAN HEAR ME JUST GET UP AND RUN OKAY?! DON’T BOTHER LOOKING FOR ME, DON’T BOTHER TRYING TO SAVE ANYONE BUT YOURSELF. FUCK THIS FUCKIN PLACE AND THESE FUCKIN PEOPLE AND THIS FUCKIN CLUB FULL OF MURDERERS!!!”
Someone jumps my way and smashes his elbow down at my throat, and now the taste of blood scares me. My throat feels like it has caved in, and I start to choke. This is it, I think, this is my death. The darkness starts to strangle me.
“¡La policia!” someone shouts from the hallways. “¡La policía está viniendo!” The police, I sigh, watching everyone run around like chickens. I hope they find my baby. I pray they find me. I lay my head down on the table and wait for real life to take its course.