The Sound of Annihilation

scene 1

i don't know anybody here, but i've counted atleast three black people so far. the light is a low yellow hum, the music is a continious pulse. my hands feel clammy around the red solo cup that i drink from intermittently when standing around uselessly becomes too awkward.

the voices of people flow through me, changing shape and colour as if sentient and merging with the music. everything is alive, i can feel the static against my skin. someone drunk bumps into me as i maneoveur through the dark corridors and i spill my drink on the carpeted floor. i turn to give them an unappreciative glare, which they ignore before staring at the wet spot. that will be someone else's problem.

stepping over it, i make my way to the kitchen as the lights deepen to a soft mauve and another song that I like starts to play, something funky. Rockers and grungeheads with mohawks and drooped earlobes pose menancingly on one side of the wall, while lovers kiss against the other, making a very impractical maze to weave through. a dull throb settles into my heart.

each door leads to a different room, with it's own kind of unique feel, like they were their own seperate worlds. the kitchen is a grassy palour, laden with well watered mossy green plants and rustic looking, brass-coloured machinery that gives the place an aura of a time long forgotten. it smells of damp concrete, microwaved food and disinfectant. the solid marble floor is stained with inconspicuously coloured liquids and sauces, i try my best to step over. there are people spread around talking and smoking outside of the window or looking for food, the sounds of the sidewalk seep in like elevator music.

with little acknowledgement of them, i walk to the sink to draw water from the tap, liking the cool breeze of the outside world on my face. beside me a girl smokes outside the open window, staring down at the road beneath her. a restaurant on the street corner with a glowing neon pink sign that says SOHO BOHO, spills out with people. her hair is the same colour as the light and it shines on her face like a halo, but i can't see her face. the hand she grips the cigarette with, is etched in a spiralling tattoo that trails up her wrist and ends seemingly at the cuff of her jacket.

noticing this, i close the tap and return to the party as more people crowd in, each one cramping up the space and increasing the volume to a club like level. i bump and brush against the jangled disembodied limbs of strangers, struggling to find a solitary place to gather my bearings and drink my water. when i find it, there in the spare guest bedroom of the two floor apartment, where atleast a couple people are passed out on the bed, I close the door silently behind me and squeeze myself into a corner to drink in silent contemplation, feeling the bass of the music rumble beneath me. thump thump thump. the sounds of the voices outside fade away into a muffled tone. for a moment, i'm the only person in the world.

looking around me, i feel the surreal excitation of the party, surrounded by all these people i didn't know, skin to skin, eye to eye, knowing i'd probably never talk to any of them again. in the home of someone i didn't know, drinking their water, sitting in their bedroom. skimming my eyes over the space, i paint the story of the room, of it's high ornate white walls, sandy coloured carpeted floors, it's vintage oak dresser and bookshelf, lined with the largest rimmed books I'd ever seen, a collection of pages and knowledge to be consumed. standing up, i place my cup down on the brim of the wooden shelf and trace my fingers along the spine of each book, ranging from the history of capitalism to the lord of the rings.

the bedroom door opens all of a sudden. it's the pink haired girl whose head pokes out. her eyes meet mine with an unusual flash of panick as she lowly mutters, sorry my bad, and leaves. the door closes as quickly as it had been opened and i'm left standing, puzzled, with a book of South American Politics in my hand, open to a chapter of Brazilian race ethics. all i can remember thinking is : her eyes are
the darkest black i've ever seen.