The main floor is over lit; the lights are Aurora Borealis at x2 speed. I’m trudging on uneven ground, sticky and sweating. The strap on my heel broke hours ago, somewhere back on the street above us. Piss, tequila and blood. I have trench foot. I’m back in the dark ages, cave days. There are red lasers fucking everywhere and I can’t see shit. All I hear is bass.

Girl to my left,  ‘I LOVE YOUR HAIR’

‘Thankyou! I LOVE YOUR HAIR!’

MD MD MD. Gotta find some freaking MD. Honey’s getting free drink cards. No reception down here, not under a 12-storey parking garage. The Killers once said, ‘Heaven ain’t close in a place like this,’ I used to aspire to that. After stumbling into this joint, not so much. If entry hadn’t been free, I might have called this the worst club in the world. The Killers also famously said ‘I’m Mr. Brightside’,  so also there is that to consider.

I’ve mounted the stage now, trying to flag down Slim, and Guinevere. I see them by the dance floor barricade. I wave furiously. Nothing.

I stumble down another set of stairs where a couple are making out, two prayer hands splayed to embrace the interior of a bra.

                  ‘Yeah yeah, shawty got down low said come and get me … ’

As my friends catch sight of me, they raise their hands in greeting. I grin and do the same, elbowing people as I pass. Slim is playing paranoia.

                  ‘Have you seen my vape? No? Oi, where’s my vape? Who’s taken it?’

He’s scarily serious when it comes to hiding his vape. I’d be fucked off if he hadn’t given me some of his dumpster wine.

It’s almost impossible to dance. The force of the crowd pushes me ‘til I’m flush against the barricade I stood above a second ago, DJ booth suspended above me.

Bambi’s behind me now. I turn and raise my hands to her in greeting, trying to scream through the sound.

                  ‘WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?’

                  ‘UP ____-_____ THE BA____’

                  ‘WHERE’S HONEY?’

Bambi points to the other side of the dancefloor. Honey won’t know where we are. Dammit, I just settled in. I point to my chest and to the direction I’m headed. Bambi nods and I continue on. And then I turn around again because the DJ starts decking the Pussycat Dolls and I’ve got to throw it back real quick. Only then can I continue.

On my birthday, I sat with my skirt pulled up around my thighs, my dainty heels balancing on the edge of the balcony. Honey and I shared a cigarette.

                  ‘Mashellah Sister.’

                  Honey laughs, ‘No no, it’s like Masha-allah.’

                  ‘Mash allah?’

                  ‘Mashallah.’

                  ‘Mahsallah?’

                  ‘Yes, diva! You got it.’

Honey is doing shots like she doesn’t know what a hangover is, which I know for a fact she does. I do a shot with her and come to think of it I can’t remember what a hangover is. Another drink. I don’t like this crowd, it’s not a good vibe, the men are sketchy, and the girls all seem so young.

Another flight of stairs. We descend. A few of us have been lost along the way.

‘I have to get up early for church tomorrow morning.’

‘My partner is waiting to pick me up.’

‘I have work at 7!’

I myself am holding out for bigger things. Which means getting a HSP at three in the morning or messaging someone I probably shouldn’t. Last Saturday I did both.

A boy next to me is freebasing cocaine and wearing a Kanye t-shirt. Sorry my bad, a Ye t-shirt. Yeezus. Someone once said to me that Kanye West should be forced to make one song every year. I like the sound of this as a punishment more than a coerced public appeal. I think Kanye West and Taylor Swift should both be limited to one song a year between the two of them. And that includes re-releases.

I can’t tolerate EDM when I’m sober. It’s hard to dance to. But if I ease myself in, I can still have a good time. Right now, the water’s fine: the throb of the music remains suspended in a layer of steam that glues my tongue to the roof of my mouth and my hair to the back of my neck. The narrow room is completely dark except for the piercing red lasers. If it wasn’t for the occasional chuff of the smoke machines, we’d be lost in the bass. Tilting along with the room until we’re all forced against one wall. Scrambling over one another to stay upright. Hamsters in a wheel.

I fear I lost myself somewhere on the last staircase. Or just my face really. I can feel the blank space where my features used to be, hollowed out and smoothed over. And I can’t tell you what I look like. And I love how much it doesn’t matter. Because the bass is speeding up. A precipice I can only assume is coming.

I catch the eyes of my friends, knowing they can’t recognise me. I feel myself shift between sheets of steam and letting the dew settle on the hairs of my forearm. My phone is on 4%. Fuck.

I leave them behind. Trying not to let my heels snag on the steps up. I spot an outlet in the foyer and crouch down. Re-line my lips. I have reception up here. I have a lot of texts from a lot of people. There’s air up here too. I wrap myself in my fur coat. Two feet away people are showing their IDs, lined up in a queue that circles the block, way up into China town. Right next to the alley where Slim keeps his wine.

‘Fuggin-I don’t- Why like- WHY won’t you let me in mate?’

‘Nah you’re too drunk. Next.’ The bouncer is motioning to check the next person.

‘NAW, Like, not even- I don’t know like why you won’t let me in? FUCKin give us a go?’

There are two tall guys dressed in black, standing by their little podiums and using weird hi-fi fucking tech to check who’s packing a fakey. These bouncers have seen it all.  A girl standing next to me looks about twelve years old, she’s wearing a low-rise black skirt and a crop top.  I guess her fakey looked pretty real. An older man says something to her as he stumbles past.

‘Are you okay?’

She nods.

‘I like your outfit.’

‘I like your hair.’

She has a little portrait on the smooth dip of her abdomen.

‘I like your tattoo.’

She nods again.

‘What did that guy say to you?’

‘He said nice tattoo.’