INSTRUMENTAL SANCTUARY 2.1

The city wasn’t any quieter than usual. Despite the underlying current of social distrust, the youth were out in their masses enjoying the club scene.

In the queue waiting to enter our favourite place, Lindsay, Theresa, and I took pictures on our phones and teased each other into fits of laughter. After fifteen short minutes of waiting in the cold, and once we had flashed our student I.D cards at the bouncer, we were let loose inside. Our trio mingled into the crowd of a hundred moving figures.

Beneath the dry-ice smoke screen, an array of blues, acid greens, hot pinks, and bright white lights swirled. The ocean of black silhouettes appeared to be dancing on the northern lights.

For now, we three stood at the shore, anticipating the dive-in and letting the dark techno beat that washed over the dance floor consume us. It wasn’t long before I was taken and accepted by the undulating swarm. We moved as if the music had fused with our bodies; each note pulled an invisible string making our limbs slaves to the DJ’s puppetry.

All around us, the building quaked under the assault of the heavy bassline. Its penetrating intensity assaulted my eardrums so violently that its memory would be that of a headache I’d suffer hours after I had left the club. It was that way every time; by now, I had gotten used to it. Though I was secretly concerned I would be deaf by the time I was thirty, I had always been a sucker for punishment. Music had always been my ultimate therapist. It allowed me to escape whatever emotion I wanted and thrust myself into another. Right now, that was what I needed.

Lindsay and Theresa abandoned me when they had danced through three songs, favouring getting started on drinking booze and enough of it to induce tomorrow morning's hangover as well as fuel whatever wild exploits that night had in store.

Luckily for them, I had never been averse to dancing alone. In fact, being alone in a crowd of people who didn’t see me was, ironically, where I felt the most comfortable. Trapped in a one-to-one with someone highlighted how socially awkward I could be.

I closed my eyes and surrendered to the music - arms reached into the air, writhed my body to the pumping rhythm and enjoyed how the neon lights lit up the backs of my eyelids in kaleidoscopic colours. I could never understand how people needed drugs to feel as free as I felt while dancing.

By the time I felt Theresa tugging on my wrist to rouse me from my trance, I had worked up a sweat and opened my eyes to find she had a girl grinding against her.

Look's like she's found someone to go home with.

“Lindsay made off with the ‘hot guy’.” She mouthed to me over the music. I chuckled and nodded, understanding that they must have already left together. “We want to head home too, but I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“Don't worry about it, T. I’m a big girl. I’ll get myself home.”

It wasn’t the first time they had left me to make my way home. Honestly, if I’d ever thought about it much, I would have realised it was a shitty thing to do - abandoning a friend just for the sake of getting laid was something I would never have done to them, but I supposed I had always been more independent than either of them.

Left to my own devices and having worked up a thirst, I negotiated my way through the crowd towards the bar.

The reason that the Omen was our scene wasn’t only because of its dystopian, techno-noir vibe. Or even that it drew a crowd of like-minded people in as much as they fell into the wider clique and social group we were part of. No, the main reason was that one of the bartenders graduated from our university, too and was a close friend of Lindsay’s older brother. Karl had introduced us to the club during freshers week, and we’d been loyal patrons since. He was a cool guy - a big brother figure to Lindsay, T and me because he always kept us safe while we were out. Too bad that I noticed he wasn’t working that night when I arrived at the bar; I would’ve asked him for a lift home.

However, I did spot an unfamiliar face staffing the bar. I’d never seen him before I could’ve been considered a regular, but I knew one thing the moment I saw him; even if he hadn’t been the next free bartender to meet my eyes and ask me what I wanted to drink, he would have still caught my eye. Everyone appeared better looking in the inconsistent lighting of a club, but I thought he was attractive. He wasn’t my type at first glance. For one, he was probably a few years older than me to have been working the bar with the level of experience and diligence he displayed.

My first impression of him physically was to notice that his hair was of medium length on the crown of his head and shaved shorter at the sides. His fringe flopped over his face, and he would sweep it backwards out of his eyes every so often - a mannerism that I found pretty hot, actually. His entire head of hair was platinum blond and appeared white in the fluorescents. Clearly, it was dyed because his darker roots were starting to regrow. The giveaway to his natural hair colour was the short stubble on his chin and eyebrows; they were darker, though it was hard to tell in the technicoloured club lights. One minute his face lit up in red and the next blue; it confused how my eyes perceived the hues.

While he made the drink I ordered, it didn’t seem rude to continue watching him. Continuing my evaluation, now that he was closer and right across the black granite bar from me, I thought his eyebrow and ear piercings suited him - they didn’t put me off, anyway.

The black button-down he wore rolled to his elbows and revealed several small tattoos on his forearms. On closer inspection, I worked out that one of them depicted a winged, horned demon, and in context to how the rest of him looked, the tattoo didn’t seem out of place. He gave off an ‘I can handle myself’ vibe without coming off as the brutish type.

Because he hadn’t buttoned his shirt up all the way, I spotted the thin silver chain hung around his neck, and that he probably worked out, but I liked it when a man was comfortable wearing jewellery…

The way he moved his hands about so quickly and deftly as he made my drink grabbed my attention. His hands, I supposed, were strong, trust-worthy-looking ones. Glinting in the lights, the two silver rings on his fingers caught my attention like a magpie. For whatever reason, I took the time to spot that he wore neither of them on his fourth finger.

Hmm, not married.

The passing thought came and went because I was soon distracted when he leant toward the bar and presented me with my drink. He didn’t seem to pay me any mind. He was just doing his job and shot me a pleasant half-smile.

As soon as he was there, he was gone and serving someone else. Meanwhile, I stuck around my place at the bar, and I drank my first round, feeling comfortable in my solitude. Another bartender served me my second round while I sat checking my messages and social media. By the time I was ready for another drink, the white-haired guy was back. He didn’t say a word that time around when I indicated I’d have another of the same and went about pouring my drink while maintaining an invasive amount of eye contact. I wasn't driven to react negatively to it and held his gaze in return without any mood-revealing expression on my face. Looking back, I wish I had made him talk to me again because I can’t remember what his voice sounded like the first time he spoke.

I was startled by the touch of a damp hand on the exposed skin of my waist.

“Hey babe, let me buy you your next drink?” I heard the male voice uncomfortably close to my ear and turned to find a face backlit by the bright dance floor lights, but I could barely distinguish his features.

“Uh, no thanks. I think this is my last one.”

“Aw, come on, babe. It’s not closing time; one more drink with me won’t hurt, yeah?” Despite my refusal, he was persistent and smarmy, and his sweaty hand hadn’t budged.

“I’m flattered, honestly, but no thanks,” I reiterated and turned to drink down what remained of my third round to see the blond-haired bartender taking it away and replacing it with a full glass. “I- I just said I didn’t want another one!” I hissed his way.

Silently, his steely eyes shifted from mine and shot the clingy guy at my side a warning glare. Immediately I felt the hand disappear from my waist and looked to see him retreating along with his wingman, who I hadn’t noticed had my other side flanked.

“This one’s on me, but you can drink this if you want to go home with him that bad?” The bartender insisted by pushing the full glass my way. He held up my half-drunken one when he explained, “His friend spiked this when he tried chatting you up.”

“Oh, right... Erm, thanks.” The gesture was kind and took me off guard, seeing as he was a complete stranger, but maybe that was the responsibility of a good bartender. I’d never had my drink spiked before. I hoped he could tell my thanks were genuine and that I was sorry I’d been short with him earlier.

So as not to tarnish my night, the liquor washed away any unpleasant feelings. Still, a change of scenery felt necessary, so I shifted away from the bar to disappear into the dancing crowd again. I wasn’t ready to go home. Besides, I was enjoying not having to think about the latest gossip on everyone’s lips and how it affected my life, just as much as a craved the buzz of adrenaline dancing gave me. I wanted to feel high, just without drugs. Back in the clutches of anonymity, I swayed my body to the rhythm of the next song and zoned out.