I can’t say I’ve ever tasted kerosene, but the swill in my glass is as close as I’d care to get. I’m sure the serving girl that brought it by said it was brandy, but she scampered off before I could check the damn thing. But one must give credit where credit is due. The stuff got me hammered fast and dulled the throbbing of the club’s dance beat. I’m fairly certain I was drunk four double shots ago. Or six. I don’t remember or care at the moment. Looking at or thinking about anything for longer than a few seconds makes everything start to spin, so my attention is rather hit and miss at the moment.
But there is one thing that I can’t pull away from.
A woman stands at the middle of the dance floor, swaying and spinning like a hypnotic dervish. Her raven hair thrashes and whips with a passion bordering on violent. Ornate ink artwork writhes on the exposed mocha skin of her back and shoulders, as if the characters depicted are as entranced by the pounding music as she is. She is the figure commanding attention in a room filled with beautiful people.
Her name is Felina.
It’s a name that every man around here knows. She is the most tantalizing of contradictions- a famous enigma, an untouchable seductress, an illusionary promise of that which you want most and can never have. You can see the lust in the faces of men who want her and women who want to be her.
A broad smile unfolds on my face for two reasons. First, I cannot help but admire her subconscious domination of the club. But more importantly, I have known her. And she has known me. I smile because I can see primal imaginations at work and because I know that those imaginations can never truly understand that their fevered dreams can’t begin to approach the bliss of the reality. She is the closest to perfection any person should ever be.
As I revel in my achievements, something catches my eye. The very fact that it attracted my gaze from Felina is an amazement, but I am too lost in the moment. A group of men has entered the club and the rhythmic crowd parts before them like the Red Sea. Each of them is impeccably dressed and exuding confidence, but it is the one in the center that sets me on edge. He is a man other men instinctually fear and respect in equal measure. His combination of prowess and cunning is obvious enough to threaten that which other men work to achieve.
I am so caught up in his arrival that I fail to notice his trajectory, and when I do, it takes everything I have not to spring from my chair. He has locked eyes with Felina.
The only thing restraining me from getting between them is that I know Felina and believe no man to be a match for her. But as he approaches her, he does not try to join her in dance. He does not pay her due respect. He does not even stop, even when his coterie disperses amongst the crowd. He strolls through the dance floor and straight past her, his eyes only leaving when to continue would require him to turn his head. His game is painfully obvious and too crude to even laugh at.
But Felina has stopped dancing. For the first time, I see her face curious and the slightest bit confused. The newcomer will not bow to her latent charms and she wishes to know why.
She follows him to the bar and takes a chair two away from his. For an eternity, neither does anything but order a drink. Then, with a measured calm, he turns to her and says something lost in the thunder of amplifiers. She smiles in return and a conversation is ignited. I am no lip reader, but it is plain to see that she is tolerating his company well. Even enjoying it, revolting as the idea is.
The crowd, in its ignorance, has returned to its mundane and fitful dancing. How they can no longer be concerned with the transpiring events is beyond me. Felina is precariously close to the man now, toying with him and letting herself be toyed with in equal measure.
I cannot stop myself anymore. I rise and slip through the mass of people, wondering why it never seemed to take so long to get to the bar before. When I finally emerge, the man is watching Felina sashay back onto the dance floor. I order a double shot of something slightly more expensive than my previous drinks. I want to say something to the man, but it occurs to me that I have no idea what. Felina’s renewed dancing only serves to distract me further
“I don’t think she’s into your type,” the man says. It takes me a moment to realize he is talking to me.
“Excuse me?” I ask incredulously.
“You heard me,” the man replied. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you watching from the moment I got here. You’re a little out of your league, friend.”
“What business is it of yours?” I ask.
“When I got here, Felina was dancing for the rest of you,” the man replied. “Look at her. She’s dancing for me now. This moment is perfect and I don’t need your delusions of grandeur fucking it up. Think of it as me doing you a favor, if that helps it go down smoother.”
“You arrogant little prick,” I spit. “You’re right about one thing. I was watching since you got here and my impressions were right all along. You’re nothing but a spoiled bastard who thinks he’s entitled to anything he wants. Grow up and maybe I’ll consider asking you for a favor.”
“Grow up?” the man asked with a smile. “You’re getting territorial about a woman who isn’t going to give you the time of day. Go back to your corner and deal with your little obsession.”
I promised myself I wasn’t going to overreact. I promised myself I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself in front of Felina. I promised myself that I have enough composure.
My fist lurches forward, deviating far from the perfect angle of attack my brain calculated. As if warned of my intent, the man arches back and lets me and my arm swing past him. I almost lose my balance, but I manage to turn, bellow, and charge, my arms spread wide like a football player. I close my eyes instinctually before the impact, and with a painful suddenness I’m greeted by the bar’s front panels. The world spins and I’m on my side on the floor, secretly marveling at the man’s agility and the stoicism of oak. I rise with considerable effort and spit something that tastes like blood. The rhythm around me has quieted and I hear the voices of large men shouting to clear a path. They could be the club’s bouncers or the man’s entourage, but either way I’m not going down without getting him.
I throw another punch and miss again, this one spinning me almost completely around to face the bar once more. I can hear him laughing now, the sound grating on my emotions like sandpaper on bare skin. My hand finds a bottle, thick-glassed and half-full. I blindly swing one more time, furious beyond what I thought I was capable of.
There is a heavy thud and pop that stop both the bottle and my whirling momentum. My eyes take far too long to adjust but when they do, the man is no longer there. I look around and see terrified faces. I look down and see a man- the man- lying on the floor. Blood is pouring from the side of his head and pooling around him. I look at the bottle and examine the red stain on the corner. I am in no small amount of disbelief that I actually hit him. For the briefest moment, I feel triumphant at having accomplished what I set out to do. But as I look at his ruined head, a terrible, sobering sickness uncoils in my gut. A veil is lifted from my hazy vision and, though I am no doctor, every part of my terrified brain says this man is dead.
A throaty growl makes me look up and see enraged bouncers lumbering and shouldering their way through the mass of people, intent solely on me. The man’s friends follow suit, their sudden movements distinguishing them and allowing me to see the mixture of shock and anger that consumes them.
The bottle becomes enormously heavy then and I drop it. I take a step back, too afraid to do anything besides let instinct take over again. A million thoughts tear through my mind at once- police, courts, prison, fear of vengeance, and pain being chief amongst them.
I have but one chance, and that is to run.
