Traitor

Cal leaned casually against the rail, one hand absently tracing the cold curls that twined down to the ground.

Through the haze of the room, he watched the crowd watch the lights and flowing scraps of cloth.

Cal realized that the fog machine had died a while ago, but the flashing lights hardly cut through the cloudy air, filtering through instead, struggling rays flickering once, twice, right in the eyes, before disappearing forever, rippling like ocean glare.

Cal bobbed his head along with the others, the bitter taste in his mouth matched by the pain in his stomach. His jeans rippled with the pulse of each beat, a heartbeat that rattled in his chest, kept him breathing. His ears had stopped ringing a while ago. They too, like the crowd, were hazy and muffled.

Cal swirled the half-melted ice around in his little plastic cup of whiskey and ginger. Or was it ginger whiskey? Whiskey and gin? Gin and whiskey? Cal glared at the little black straw and frowned, breath traitorously rich and hot in his mouth. He took another drink, and the crowd grew hazier.

Someone on the floor blew a cloud of smoke into the air, and it floated, suspended, like a thought cloud over his head before the fog machine kicked in again and swallowed him whole.

Cal hated whiskey. He took another gulp, ice pressing up against his lips, big fish in a little pond. Someone else on the floor saluted the lights with a fairly large plastic cup that was also fairly empty.

Another thought cloud went up, was swallowed.

Cal traced the twisted rail again, tucking his head farther back into his hood, taking comfort in the weight of his leather jacket. He was tired of holding the whiskey. Or gin. So he took another drink.

He was only doing this to make her happy. Why did it always end up like this? They hardly ever talked and met up even less, but every time they did, Cal would leave smelling of thought clouds and whiskey.

Cal shifted against the rail. His foot had fallen asleep.

The lights flashed red and orange.

All the trumpets and the marching bands,

And the thunderclaps and trembling hands,

And the people stood up in the stands,

And I just felt so alone.

‘Cause the halos, the black rusted chains,

In the light

As we screamed

In the dark

“I just wanted to find a way home.”