Mykael's Song: It Teaches Us Nothing

Part 2: Wax

Mykael had to park two  streets down from Vickie's gratuitously large house – and from there he  could still hear the bass of shitty trap-music thumping. There was a  bouncer standing in front of the mahogany double doors, a surly man with  a bald pate, and skin almost as leathery as the jacket he wore. He  regarded Mykael with a blocky-toothed smile that made his skin crawl as he opened the door and let him inside. Mykael  turned around; sure he'd heard mountain whisper something. But the door  had already been closed. It smelled like sweat and desperation in the  dark faux-mansion; but mostly it smelled like weed; lemony and pungent. Mykael  started to sweat almost as soon as he walked in – maybe a hoodie had  been a bad choice. The humidity of a thousand bodies crammed together  seemed to ebb and flow, like the breath of some unwashed giant. He  pushed his way through the soggy mass of post-adolescent flesh as it  surged rhythmically to the music.

People screamed his name  and mussed his hair as he struggled through the crowd. They were  nameless faces almost all of them; second-tier friends from a life that  was behind him now. He could see the stairs. He was almost through to  see the birthday girl he wasn't sure about seeing. Hands grabbed his  arm, clammy and cold, even in this sauna.

They pulled him out of the crowd and under the bannister.  The hands made him tense as icy fingers found their way under his  jacket. There was a bottle in his hand, something black. He looked down  the frigid little alabaster arms to a face he didn't recognize. It  smiled at him, sweet and dangerous – soulless, as the body seemed to  freeze-frame, swaying wildly under the pulsating strobe lights.

"I don't think we've met before." Mykael had to yell awkwardly over the din.

She didn't say a word as  she put a finger to his lips, shushing him – she just guided the bottle  to his mouth and urged him to drink. He drank, and he drank deeply.  Spicy and rich, the black-as-pitch liquor seemed to writhe in his  insides as it went down. Rum wasn't really his first choice, but Mykael  nearly finished the bottle all the same – maybe it would help him like  himself tonight, if only for a little while. His brain sloshed around in  his skull. The crowd surged again pressing the unknown body closer to  him as the music changed. A woman sang in a detached cadence along to  melodic, post-punk instrumentals.

"You like TEEN?" The  nameless face said, swaying as her silvery hair whipped and billowed  about her head. Somehow it was like she didn't have to yell over the crowd, like he did. Her slick, velvety voice stuck its fingers into his head and tickled his brain.

"Post-punk's not really my thing," He said, bobbing his head to the bass guitar as warmness radiated from his stomach.

"What is your thing, then?" She said as she met his eyes. They were silver as moonlight on whitewater.

"Knowing people's names, mainly," he said with a lopsided smile. He was starting to slur.

"I get the sense you  couldn't care less what my name was," The nameless girl said, as she  returned his lopsided smile, mocking him. She wasn't wrong. "And  besides, what's in a name anyway? Names are..." she looked to the ceiling, as if to find the right word. "Fleeting."

"Yeah?" Mykael  said. He'd started to dance along with her. He hadn't even realized. "I  was under the impression our names defined us. Call me crazy." He  shrugged his shoulders.

"Them," The silvery  temptress said, as she turned her head up quickly, gesturing at the  sweaty, throbbing horde. "Names define them, not us." Mykael was  suddenly, irrationally afraid. He'd just smelled a lion strutting  through the leopard's den. He was the leopard. Or the wolf. He  kept dancing as the adrenaline made his legs weak. He felt like she  might tear out his throat right here if he said the wrong thing.