Breaking the what?

Strange how those words can’t ever be followed by another sound. As if your ears shut down in shock, a protective mechanism, refusing to hear anything else in case it turns out to be more bad news. The world receded. Music stopped. People vanished. Gravity deserted us. Time became meaningless. We were alone, clinging to one another as we spun madly through a world that no longer made sense. The vodka played its part well, spinning the room at just the right angle and slapping blinkers on the side of my face, that old familiar tunnel vision that seasoned drinkers know so well. All I could see were her eyes, emerald windows into a soul I’d once known as well as my own, cherished more than my own. They were infinity, holding entire worlds of caring and pain and longing within themselves. All the emotions that ever existed were right there in front of me, naked in their honesty, painful in their intensity, reaching for me, calling to me, trying to wrap themselves around me and shield me from what they knew was coming, what they knew was lurking outside of current time and space, crouching in the dark and readying itself.

Raindrops landed on Morag’s upturned face. Warm and salty, I could taste them as they fell. I tried to ask where they were coming from, but the only word that came out was “No.” My head shook itself to confirm this. More raindrops appeared. “No. He said he’d meet me here tonight.”

“John…”

I tried to pull away. I needed to breathe. She held me tighter. “John, don’t. I’m so sorry. Don’t go.”

I remembered the bottle in my hand and took a long drink. Must have spilled some on my face, because it was wet. I wiped it away, sniffing. Probably coming down with something. Another drink should sort that out.

Then the music came flooding back, grounding me again and reminding me where I was. Zeplins. Tuesday night. Urban Assault. And I could see them across the room, the crowd making its way from the bars and the dance floors and the pool tables, crowding into the space in front of the band, ready and waiting. Cliff appeared on stage, still standing in as a replacement singer while they searched for a new front man. He raised his arms to thunderous applause. “Breaking the what?”

The crowd surged forward. “Law!”

“Can’t hear you. Breaking the what?”

More fans poured from the toilets and the stairs leading to the roof. “Law!”

“Louder. Breaking the what?”

Fists and bottles shot into the air. “Law!”

Cliff smiled through his beard.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Till next time. Cheers.