Page 13 of Devil Inside

One night. That was the deal. A trial run, back in the saddle. Go out with the crew, get a taste for the nightlife again. Dip a toe in the water, see how the temp feels. It’s been months since I was last social. Folks were beginning to wonder if I’d left town. Or died.

You got that right. I was. Dead. For a while, at least.

So what the fuck am I now?

Just one night, Lys insisted.Take it slow.

Bad call.

The Flood Zone is a mid-tier concert venue that gets its fair share of national acts. It’s not as small as some of the other clubs in town, like Twisters or the Metro, but the place is packed with underage kids from across the river. All the high schoolers on the Southside have made their way downtown tonight, gotten their hands stamped to show the bartender they’re not drinking,no booze for you, sorry, boys and girls, have a soda pop,and they cram themselves in front of the stage where Inquisition pummels the sound system.

So—yeah. This must be hell, alright. Maybe not H-E-double-hockey-sticks, but sardining with a bunch of suburban Hot Topic goth kids sure sounds like a living hell to me.

What if one of these kids were to just...disappear? Not make it home tonight? How long before anyone would notice? Before their parents called the police?

Christ almighty, where in the hell did that thought come from?

My anxiety prickles. I can feel it kindle. I need to leave. Get out of this place.

Now.

The mosh pit spins in the center of the open floor, pushing back all the concertgoers who don’t want to participate in the eddy of elbows and knuckles.

Audience decorum insists that if there’s going to be a pit, and you better believe there’s always a pit at an Inquisition show, everyone’s got to look out for each other...

I’m not so sure tonight. Something about this pit in particular looks downright biblical. Something out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting.The Mosh Pit of Earthly Delights.

I don’t like it. At all. Something is off about the vibes tonight.

Maybe it’s just me.

Who am I kidding? Of course it’s me. It’s always me that’soff, off and away...

One woman rises up above the rest. She looks like an offering from the pit, born out of this vortex of writhing bodies. Spat out from the mass. She’s now passed over everyone’s heads, her arms outstretched at her sides. I can just barely make out the arms below her, the faceless crowd grabbing hold of this girl and sending her along to the next set of hands.

Look at her. She has this rapturous manner about her, eyes closed, mouth open, as all those hands take hold and pass her along. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone that ecstatic before, her spine arching upward, head bent back, letting everyone touch her.

Who is this woman? This saint spit out from the pit? She’s having the time of her life. Sure looks that way, at least.

Then she’s gone. The woman slips down, losing her elevated position above the rest, swallowed back into the throng of heaving bodies below. There and gone in a blink.

I shouldn’t have come. I know that now, know it in my bones. What the hell was I thinking? Going out? Coming here? I’mnot ready for this. Any of this. Being with people, back with the living, back in my own body. Bad call on my part all across the board.

Get out of here. Go. Now.

Sweaty bodies are crammed in just about every corner. Chests heaving, breathing in the music. I’m watching others get swept up by the sound. This band’s channeling enough energy to light up half of the city. You can see the music sweep through the crowd. It’s a summoning. A séance. We’re all divining electricity with each chord progression, whipping ourselves up into a frenzy.

I can’t abide. Participate in the pit. Not tonight, if ever again. My physical therapist would have my hide if he found out I’ve been moshing. My body’s not up to it, still broken.

All the king’s horsesand all that...

Too rich for my blood.

My bones.

I scan the roiling crowd. What am I even looking for? What do I see? Wasted potential. We’re all somebody’s victim, aren’t we? None of these are mine; someone else’s.

There’s a scent I can’t quite put my finger on, lingering beneath the beer and sweat.