Fruitbat

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1

Si

10:32 pm

Music penetrates my ears and takes my body. I need it to carry this day away on smooth undulating waves. Thudding bass resounds in my chest, and lyrics fill my head as a gentle pulsing aura envelops me. I give in to the music, shutting out this crowded room, bursting at its seams with my so-called friends, and their friends.

The songstress pleads for her lover not to prove her right. But they always do, don’t they?

My knees bow and sway, twisting my hips from side to side. My head rolls and my arms flail over my head, like a marionette dangling from strings, tied to the ceiling .

The air inside my bubble vibrates as I close my eyes and surrender to the melody, bumping shoulders with the eclectic horde of costumed characters, swallowing me at the center of my living room.

My housemates insisted we throw this “ Slasher Bash, ” celebrating Halloween, by inviting anyone relevant in our contact lists. They love any opportunity to boost their social standing. I’m not sure why my apartment became the primary venue, considering this party was never my idea, but I didn’t protest when I had the chance.

I do enjoy people a lot of the time. There’s a euphoria in being surrounded by them, even when they’re not genuine connections. Everyone carries wisdom and enrichment, giving and taking, whether they’re aware or not. Community makes the world a better place. Right?

It’s also exhausting.

Not one friend at this party has remembered that Halloween is also my birthday. Your 30th is supposed to be a big one—It certainly doesn’t feel like it.

Mallory’s birthday is just two days after mine as it has been every year since we first met. Obviously, you’d think my best friend would remember my birthday, with our dates being so close together. She’s dropped hints about her gift-list for weeks. I got her a slouchy cream cashmere sweater from her favorite boutique up the street, because she practically assigned it to me. I don’t like to disappoint, even though I’m always the one disappointed. Maybe that’s my trauma response ?

I’m used to sharing my day with the beloved holiday. It goes down the same way, every year. I wait for the “happy birthdays” that never come but no one ever forgets “ Happy Halloween. ”

Nanny Grace used to remind everyone, including my parents, when I was a kid. She raised me and my four older siblings, and dedicated more of her life to us, than her own children, while our mother and father jetted around the globe. She was the one person I could count to remember my birthday, until she passed when I was thirteen. I’ve been forgotten ever since. I don’t understand how people forget so easily I don’t forget dates, they stick in my head like flies to a spider’s web.

“Si!”

Damien’s voice is light years away.

I carry on, rocking and rolling to the music.

“Hey—Josiah!” he shouts in my ear and his hands clamp my shoulders, reeling me from my trance.

“Yeah?” I shout back over the noise of the party, edged with frustration, as my bubble pops.

“Did you get tequila?” Damien’s black pupils are dilated and rimmed with blood-red irises. Those costume contacts are so creepy .

His floppy black hair is slicked back with some greasy gel and his face is powdered white with a drip of crimson corn syrup, trailing the edge of his mouth, dry and cracked to his chin.

“Yes, it’s in my room. I’ll get it.” I flag my index finger, adding, “One sec. ”

My fangy housemate folds back into the herd.

Damien, Mallory, and I have known each other since we were little, attending all the same fancy private schools and pushed to socialize in our parents' pretentious circles. I'm not so sure they’d bother with me, if my father wasn’t who he is.

I weave through the crowd and up the hall, stopping by the bathroom, because my bladder is ready to burst.

A trio of ladies that I vaguely recognize, stumble out, laughing and poking at each other. Barbie in neon roller skating gear, a platinum-haired black-cat in a negligee, and Patrick Star, swiping white residue from her nostril on the back of her pointy foam sleeve.

I press against the wall so they can pass, and quickly lock myself into the toilet with the cloud of skunky smoke, swirling around my head as I relieve the ache in my belly.

The mirror is a nasty bitch tonight, reflecting frazzled curls, sun-bleached from the past summer, and my tinted-gray face is smeared with dark shadow around my eyes. I’ve been binging The Walking Dead episodes all week. Dressing up as a zombie was the obvious choice for my costume. The simplest solution, after I left the decision until the last minute, and needed to think of something quick. Procrastination is my best skill.

I got crafty, chewing up a t-shirt with dull kitchen scissors, to make my jagged crop top. Leaving my belly exposed, because I’m gay, it’s Halloween, and slutty costumes giving skin are standard issue .

A hollow-eyed zombie mimics me In the mirror, sucking air through my teeth, and blotting my hands on a towel, before traipsing to my bedroom, slipping through the door, and latching it shut behind me.

I lean on the closed door, blowing a long exhale to express my aching lungs. Have I been holding my breath all night?

The refuge of my room is intoxicating, or maybe that’s the contact high from the smoky bathroom?

I scoop two bottles of tequila off my computer desk, and set them on the floor outside my door, before barricading myself away from the muffled chaos.

Someone will find them, eventually. I just want to disappear for the rest of this night.

A draft of chilly air sneaks under the cracked window, carrying faint voices that fade in passing, as people make their way down the sidewalk outside.

I haul the window open and slink out to the fire escape, closing my eyes, and drawing the autumn air into my nostrils. I fill my diaphragm, hoping to steady my sloshing mind from the four vodka-cranberries I had earlier.

Wrought iron clinks and moans as I descend into the dark shadows of the narrow alley.

The street is abandoned and barely lit by a sparse scattering of streetlamps. I live on the second floor of a three-story industrial-style building, sandwiched between Mallory and Damien’s condos on the other two floors.

I round the corner and follow the sidewalk, toward the park, that’s only three blocks over. It’s a nightly trek I started several months ago. —Doctor’s orders. Exercise and fresh air are supposed to help me sleep. Insomnia is a total nightmare.

I knot goosebumped arms around my naked waist, wishing for a moment that I had grabbed a coat. —It’s freezing tonight.

Meh—the exertion will warm me up eventually.

Passing through a gap in the split-rail fence that surrounds the park, I trod along the crushed gravel path, stones popping under the rubber soles of my sneakers.

Distant voices chatter but move away, as I stroll into the forested oasis at the center of the city. When you venture deep enough, modern civilization disappears from view, more-so after dark.

The new moon is bright, casting looming shadows behind bare trees. Petrified leaves flit across the path on whispering wind, escaping piles, waiting to be collected and hauled away. A fluffy pair of raccoons rummage through a trash bin, pausing to gawk at me, before carrying on when I’m clear of their territory. Glancing back over my shoulder, I spy ringed tails flitting from the top of the can. Too cute.

Typically, I turn left at the fork, and loop back home, to climb into bed and stare at the ceiling until morning, but tonight I veer right. The party will go on until daylight, so I’m in no rush to return.

This path leads to a bridge that crosses into the grittier half of the city, over the river that cuts straight through. I’ve got nothing else to do, so might as well explore the other side.

A pack of monsters and ghouls are draped over a park bench, up ahead. Their beastly leader prances around them, reenacting a tale that has the group cackling like a clan of hyenas.

I approach cautiously, trying to maintain a confident stroll. Their gossip simmers, as they focus on me, interrupting the fun. I should have looped out around them and hid myself in the shadows . It's too late now. A nervous grin creeps up my cheeks and my heartbeat is thumping again. Please be friendly.

They’re in their late teens or early twenties, I can’t tell anymore. I’ve reached an age where young people are suddenly intimidating.

My face is hot and I chew my lip to still the quiver. My throat tightens, but I force a swallow, so my voice is clear.

“Hey.” I manage a smile.

“Hey.” The flanneled furry storyteller studies me.

His curious pack stares me up and down with narrow eyes as I pass.

Hold it together Si.

Once I reach a safe distance, they carry on with their cackling, like I was never there.

Heavy air squeezes from my gut and I drop my shoulders with relief, exiting the opposite side of the park through another gap in the split-rail fence.

The wide stretch of highway is clear, when I check both directions, and step into the crosswalk.

The bridge is straight ahead and the other side of the city is just past the river. I have no idea where I’m going, but I guess I’ll Know when I get there .

Headlights sweep the road in front of my feet as a grumbling vehicle barrels around the corner.

I turn my head toward the dark-tinted SUV, that’s headed straight for me. Its LED bulbs are blinding, and screeching tires echo over the river.

I freeze, clenching my eyes and brace for impact but my body lifts off, and I tuck and roll into a somersault, crashing against the midway.

The beastly truck roars and its wheels sear the pavement with blood-curdling wails, reclaiming its speed, and races down the street.

“Asshole!” I scream at the taunting tail lights, trailing off into the night. My hands tremble and my head is spinning. I climb back to my feet and lean on my knees, trying to catch my breath and calm my pounding chest.

“Jeesh!” I wheeze, swallowing my guts back down until they settle where they belong.

I swipe a bead of sweat from my brow and carry on, shaking my head to reset, and whisk that terrifying moment away. My eyes might crawl out of my head, but I’m okay.

This half of the city smells different, bizarrely sweet. It reminds me of fried dough, from the carnivals that Grace used to take us to, coated with a generous dusting of confectioners sugar.

There aren’t any trees on this side of the city, just lots of concrete and brick. The buildings are decorated with graffiti and there are bits of trash scattered about .

That would never fly in my neighborhood. The privileged residents of Park Row would tear the mayor a new asshole over a candy wrapper on the street.

I giggle at the flash fantasy of my mother, arranging a brunch with all the stuffy socialites, passive-aggressively inciting a protest, while sipping mimosas and plotting the mayor’s political downfall.

Maybe they should get brighter traffic lights for that intersection before the bridge.