16 March 2005
The beat goes on
You observe the pool of blood on the ground, feeling as though you are intruding on a scene you are not meant to witness.
The girl in white dances in front of you. You are mesmerised by her long black hair and startling green eyes, cold emeralds flashing as she glances at you, the strobe light and her mascara holding you captive. Her hair hangs down in daggers and frames a face punctuated by round ‘why’ lips. Her long sleeved white shirt clings tightly around a slender frame and loosely suggests feminine arms beneath flowing sleeves. Her skirt reaches to the ground and sways along with her body. She gives you the impression of being a cat disguised as an angel.
The hard beat carries her in a way that you can tell she is swept by the rhythm. She doesn’t think, she just moves. You are finding it hard to find the beat, intrigued as you are by the creature before you, pulsating to the beat coursing through the floor.
But you are happy. So happy you don’t mind the waves of nausea sweeping over you as you stagger, eyes half shut where you are on the dance floor. The interior is intimate in shades of clean white and cream, and the lights are soft. The smell is the clean smell of a venue that draws only the ‘right’ kinds of people, and maintains a well-polished pine floor. Your attention wanders for a moment to the wall that is a fish tank. Silver and gold fish move up and down amongst the bubbles, unaffected by the beats, and by the cocktail sippers leaning against the glass. Blues, greens and reds of diffused spotlights shine through and colour the crowd.
You turn back to see her staring straight at you – you wonder why. You smile at her, at a moment where the music swells and those on the floor can’t help but smile – at each other, or to themselves. She smiles back, and turns to face the DJ, who also smiles at her between tracks. They must know each other, judging by the way she makes faces at him and gestures to him.
Her eyes are open wide, and blood drips from her mouth and her nose, onto the cool pine floor. A moment ago, you say her turn around to survey the crowd behind her, and you saw her eyes roll into her head. You saw her legs twist around each other and turn to white flags as she lost consciousness. This all moved in a slow caricature, like a shot of a cat twisting around in mid-air preparing to land on all fours. Except from there, her head slammed into the ground in front of your feet. A halo of black hair floated on the floor, and you knelt down to turn her face away from the floor.
You are watching her, detached, now. The pool of blood grows at a slow pace, and you hardly noticed the music stopped. Silence fills the venue for a few startled minutes, as a crowd around her collectively observes, as you do. A clock passes a few stunned silences with resonating ticks. The trickle of blood becomes a pool, and you wonder if she is breathing.
The sound of sirens fills the venue. The girl is gone. The crimson stain has been erased. The fish-wall is an undisturbed green and red and blue. The beat fills the dance floor again. You turn and smile at the DJ. There is nothing between you and the beat now.
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