The Leavers

2 (1)

9:30pm, Angel's Bar and Club

"Purple Haze" by Jimi Hendrix is playing...
or is it "Paint it Black" by The Rolling Stones?

So many sounds.
So many colours.
Each song blending together. An endless playlist of droning noise. Jon doesn't care.

Lost in the sea of people, he's on a dance floor.
How'd he get here? Why is he here?

To say his first nightclub experience will likely be forgotten by morning is a given. His mind is rushing at 100mph. Nothing is real. What is real?

There's faces, warped by some degree, dancing around him, circling him in energy he can physically feel. Why can I feel their souls....

Jon's moving too. He can't really tell though. Incoherent "dancing" doesn't stick out here. As a British outsider in America, it's his individuality that blends him in. No one here is the same.

He can make out some empty stage beyond the dancefloor beneath the blinding lights. It's vacant. It's calling to him.

"Jon. Feel me. Give me your strength." It calls.
"Jon.
I need you."

A whispering voice calls from the stage, raspy and hollow. His eyes feel glued on it.
I'm a fucking performer. I'm fucking everything.

He pushes through people, stumbling, ruthless. For a moment he felt like Moses. Certainly did not look the part.
The stage.
It calls for me.

Jon climbs the short stage, elevated about a metre off the ground. He falls on the surface, hands shaking, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. The streamlights, purple, red, yellow, paint their trails among his body as he climbs up to stand, vision swirling and legs nimble.
I'm the next superstar.
I have so much potential.
I am God.

"It's my time!!"

He yells.

The music softens as the hundreds of eyes on the dancefloor dart in his direction. Each one like little white starts among the void.

"New York! I'm Jon Whitaker. I'm the Jon of Johns. Gather 'round!" He orders, drunkenly to the crowd, his speaking slurred.

"Who the fuck is this guy?" A male voice calls from the crowd as others chime in, booing or yelling.

Jon doesn't care. Jon doesn't know. He cant hear much. But it's ok.

In a daze, he swerves side-to-side, voice droning as he lazily sings a song of his, completely out of tune. There's no telling how long he's up there for. Minutes feel like seconds.

With his eyes closed, he's unbreakable. Nothing exists if he can't see it.
Nothing exists because he can't see.
Nothing exists.
He falls to the ground.