The best was saved for last, and it came toward the end of the set.
My focus was slightly filmy by that stage—the vodka—and I didn’t trust my eyes.
I screwed them up, strained to confirm what I thought I was looking at.
Smoke, gray, hazy, deadly smoke, emanating from the side of the stage and along the front.
The room started to fill with it. The man next to me coughed; a psychosomatic action, since dry ice, stage smoke, prompts no such reflex.
I felt it drift over me, saw how the lights and the lasers cut through it. I closed my eyes.
In that moment, I was back there, in the house, upstairs. Fire.
I heard screams, and could not tell if they were mine. The bass drum beat fast with my heart, the snare drum skittered like my pulse.
The room was full of smoke, and I couldn’t see. Screams, my own and hers. The bass drum, the snare.
The spurt of adrenaline, speeding the tempo, nauseatingly strong, too strong for my small body, for any small body.
The screaming. I pushed out, out, pushed past every obstacle, stumbling, panting, until I was outside, out in the dark black night.
Back to the wall, I slumped down, sprawled on the ground, the screaming in my ears, body still pounding.
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