Rapture
The water bottle perspires in her hand; the liquid whooshing and gulping with each brisk step. She picks her way across an unfamiliar, abandoned yard which holds memories, in its network of cracked concrete, of every seismic shift. She strides on, musing on what caused other people to sweat in this carcass of once proud industrial life and whether the earth would move again tonight. The night sky glows tangerine from tall lights, motorway-style. At intervals, there is a rush of sound and white light up ahead. Her pace quickens in time with her heartbeat. Looking left and right, she nods to the other anonymous participants, aware that her teeth are grinding, her jaw clenched and aching.
She receives the signal and is in. Closing her eyes, she stands motionless, breathing hard. The sound waves throb and bounce off the smooth walls. Then she’s striding again, in rhythm, her furrowed brow implying her eagerness to begin. Arching her back, she wriggles out of her jacket, frowning at the water bottle that is slowing her down. There’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth as she considers, perhaps, jettisoning it. But no, she can not and instead, takes a long swig. A space opens. Pushing hair behind her ears and clinging, still, to the plastic that’s slipping dangerously, she steps forward. With raised arms, she rolls the cool bottle across her forehead as her hips begin to sway and her feet begin to perform an alternate tattoo . She bays to the rotting ceiling, though no-one can hear, becoming one with the beat.
The sound is harsh, relentless, bullets of compressed vibration. It is brought to the cavernous space by a jerking figure on a far balcony. All heads are turned to him as he works the equipment. Pairs of arms salute and worship the king of bass. Her pupils are wide now, in the moments when they are on view. Mostly, she is closed off, pulsating with an inner, individual compulsion. She’s lost to the repetitive thud, moving every part of her body with an incongruent mix of grace and potency; a brutal, electrifying ballet.
In the first minutes her ears burn but she gets used to it. With a sense of proprioceptive pride, her moves fluid, practiced and exact, she raises the sensory rush. With eyes open, she takes in the large and close crowd, and smiles. This is the moment, her moment of rapture. The synchronicity of each sashay, each air pump or leap proves beyond doubt that she and these strangers are a connected organism, at one, pulsing together in the heat and sound and stabs of light. A congregation in every respect, seeking bliss and oblivion. Her heart jars with zaps of tingly heat as peace descends.
As the next Saturday approaches, she checks her phone. Again. Again. Waiting. Frustrated, she opens the fridge. A cold water bottle stands ready.
THE END