Looking for a place to go where no one would bother me would prove to be a challenge. That biker bar up on Speedway? Maybe. I certainly couldn’t go to Club Congress, they knew me too well. I was also fairly well known at the Fourth Avenue Social Club. I finally decided on the Fine Line. The Fine Line was the local goth club, filled with black haired hipsters in their leather and vinyl, tattoos and piercings, clove cigarettes and expensive drinks. What better place for me to go, some little Italian girl in a beige t shirt and jeans, virtually free of all make up or any of the trappings of fashion? Yes, if there was any place I might get left alone it would be there.
Braving the stares of youngsters who thought I was just not quite cool enough to drink in their establishment, I crossed the dance floor and found a seat at the bar. I began pounding the shots, staring at the mirror behind the bartender. By looking in the mirror I could watch the crowd without it appearing I was watching. A slender man with long hair, surrounded by his friends, caught my glance and looked over at me. He walked over to the bar, said something to the bartender, and stood nearby in anticipation. The bartender walked over to me.
“That man over there,” she gestured to the slender man. “says he would like to buy you a drink but that he gets to pick the drink.”
“What drink is it?” I asked, curious.
“He says that I can’t tell you until after you drink it.”
“Tell him I said thanks, but no thanks.”
The bartender walked over to the man, who immediately gave an annoyed sneer. He and his friends walked onto the dance floor.
I kept drinking, pounding the tequila, until the mutterings of last call floated into my ears. I stumbled outside and got onto my motorcycle, glad that I lived less than a mile from this particular establishment. Once home and safely under my bedcovers, I promptly passed out.
There was crying in the distance. I walked through the dark tunnel, feeling the wall to guide me, following the sobs. I saw a little boy hovered in a corner.
“Little boy, are you lost--?”
He looked up at me and I gasped. It was Howie. I turned around and ran. Running back from where I came, I stumbled. I was caught by something. Or someone. Rags and flesh and bones held me up, saved me from my fall. I looked. It was the zombie from the art supply store.
“What’s wrong with me?” I cried. “Why am I so mean?”
“I told you that you should be more honest,” the zombie said.
“But what happened to make me this way? I’m not a bad person I’m honestly not—“
“Sure you are sweetie,” another voice piped up. As it did, the zombie disappeared and I fell to the ground, gravel cutting my knees. I tried to find the voice as he continued to speak. “That’s why I like you so much.”
Out of the shadows came a face, soft and almost feminine, wisps of hair covering brown eyes. I stared at those eyes and suddenly was filled with an inexplicable terror.
I gasped awake. I was soaked in sweat. Tossing the covers off of me, I shook my head, shook the image and the sensations out of me as best I could. I needed a glass of water.